


Not Like the Songs

by Hypomone535



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/M, Post Season 8, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-20 00:57:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 84,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14884578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypomone535/pseuds/Hypomone535
Summary: After the Great War, the Starks endure, but the Great Game is not yet won.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “Life is not a song, sweetling.  
> Someday you may learn that, to your sorrow.” - G.R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones

_In his dreams there is always fire._

_Orange and pink flames lap over him and under him, burning the clothes off his body.  In the depth of his mind he tells himself to scream, but no sound comes out and as he thinks about it longer he feels no pain._

_Standing in the throne room of the Red Keep, he talks to a man in gray leather.  There is a dragon somewhere, screeching and twisting his body into painful knots.  The flames continue on, hot and cold and really not like flames at all. The fire changes and tastes like the sunset; its hue changing and spreading over him like the colors against the sky._

_Immediately he is somewhere else, above the earth, below the earth, falling and running along the ground.  Winterfell is all around him, even though he can’t see the granite or hear the comforting patter of the blacksmiths from the yard.  It flows through his blood, a winding river that sounds like a song._

_He tries to listen.  He tries to understand its meaning._

_And just when his body dangles in that sweet moment of bliss and reality, he can almost hear what it is that sings to him._

_Almost._

#

The small piece of contentment Sansa had found after the Long Night was now over. Looking between the two of them, her stomach dropped, swooping painfully, filling her with a foreboding ache. Dread pooled in her eyes as she folded her hands neatly in her lap, pinching herself to the point of pain. Pain was better than tears, a sure sign of weakness at the suggestions they were making. These long faces and serious eyes, were these to be the next group of men that would decide her fate?

  
Despite her feelings or who she was and the name of Stark that she carried, she knew, eventually, they would have their way, marrying her off to the first available eligible northerner. Standing she moved away from the pair of Northern lords. With her back to them, she let herself stand close to the fire. The flame crept under her skin. Filling with heat, the insides of her body protested at the thought of marriage to a stranger. Would she be condemned to a third marriage that was not of her choice?  
Closing her eyes she could almost hear her father’s words. Bouncing of the walls of their home in King’s Landing she could feel the tone of Eddard Stark’s voice, prick her heart. “When you’re old enough, I’ll make you a match with someone who’s worthy of you, someone who’s brave, and gentle and strong…”

  
Pain over the injustice that had been her life filled her with a strange determination. If Lord Stark had lived Sansa was sure he would have fulfilled his promise… But he was gone and the men she’d been thrown at since had all been immoral and evil, except maybe the Imp, but Sansa had never liked anything about him except his treatment of her. Where were these men her father had believed had existed?

  
Shameful tears fell against her cheeks thinking of the one man she knew who fit that description. Her face flushed as her own mind didn’t immediately deny the possibility of it. Looking back up at the fortitude of the lords’ faces she opened her mouth, displaying her own steely resolve. If this was to be her fate, again, this time it would only be on her terms. Her scars would not be for nothing.

  
#

  
Jon sat in front of his fire the sounds of late evening settling around Winterfell. Ghost sat against his legs, his wounds from the battle finally completely healed. His now three legged friend seemed to sigh in deep contentment and Jon couldn’t disagree. His feeling of late had been much lighter, the Great War a part of the strange past that had brought him to this moment in his life.

  
Not the son of Eddard Stark as he always believed, Jon had felt lost for so many months after the battles had ceased. He’d lost his friends, Davos and the men of the Watch. Daenerys and her dragons were gone as well, almost like a dream he’d never really lived through and his family? Arya gone. Bran gone. And Sansa… Only within the last few moons had he woken up enough to see how much she needed him. There still was much work to be done.

  
Just as his red headed cousin filled his thoughts he heard a soft knock on the door. “Come in.” His own reluctance obvious he was relieved when Ghost stood and hobbled toward her. Sansa was the only one worthy of Ghost’s attention, except for maybe Sam, but he was hundreds of miles away.  “Isn’t it a bit late for you to be awake?”

  
Sansa came and sat opposite from him, “Perhaps, but the Lady of Winterfell does as she likes.” She smiled at him easily. “As you too are awake, I find I have some welcome company.”

  
He looked over her face, “I know the weariness of your eyes Sansa.” His voice was gentle, “What is it?”

  
“The ruling lords have decided it is time for the last Stark to marry and produce an heir.”

  
Jon’s nostrils flared and he gripped the arms of his chair, “And you told them exactly what you thought of that?”

  
“I said nothing but listened to their suggestions and came to voice my thoughts to you.”

  
His mouth twitched, “It’s been a long time since you’ve come to me seeking advice.”

  
The steely set of her shoulders didn’t shrink, “It has been a long time since you’ve been in a position to give advice.”

  
A quiet length of time filled the space between them. The past still vibrant and dreamlike he still had moments when memory skewed his reality. In the end there was no quick resolution to be had, and he came simply to sit beside her, “You don’t have to do anything that you don’t want you to do.”

  
His long pause didn’t faze her, “Those are pretty words but you know it to be true, I must marry again.”

  
Acknowledging it, didn’t make it less bothersome to him, “I will not let those men force you into another arranged marriage. Not now after everything has changed.”

  
Sansa knew he was right. The world had changed but people always took longer to catch up. “Did you really mean what you said all those moons ago? When we were camped out in the snow against the mountains? When Ramsey stood between us and home?”

  
He looked at the blue depths that were her eyes and swallowed hard, “You know I meant every word Sansa, nothing has changed. I may not be your brother- but we are family.”

Tears fell from her eyes, ashamed for what she was about to suggest, “I pray you will forgive me Jon.”

  
“What is it?” He reached out and put his hand on her arm, “What do I have to forgive you for? Have you chosen your husband and are afraid to tell me?”

  
“I have.”

  
A strange feeling passed through him. Looking down he was aware of his fingertips on her, “Who Sansa?”

  
Looking directly into his eyes she thought of her father, “I fear you will despise me.”

  
He felt real fear thinking of all the worst possibilities, “Who is he?”

  
There was a silent plea in her eye, “The only man I know to be brave, gentle and strong.”

  
A moment of sweet relief, of near euphoria moved through his body before he fought against the only truth he had ever known. He stood up backing away from her, “No. We couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I could never…”

  
Following him she raised her hands as if to calm him, “Would you hear me cousin?”

  
“Sansa…” His voice was low and remorseful, understanding her use of language. “Please don’t.”

  
“I am not your sister now nor have I ever been, and I am asking for you to marry me to protect me, just as you promised. This is the only way we can be free- able to live here in our home. I don’t want to go south ever again. I don’t want to live in any other castle in the North. I want my name to remain Stark forever.”

  
“I ‘m not a Stark.”

  
“Not in name, but the North is your home.  Stay here, marry me and let us rule over Winterfell together.”

  
His chest heaved, adrenaline pumping through him. “Is that not what we are doing now?”

  
“If I am forced to marry, and my husband is unwillingly, I will have no means to fight for our right to our home. I cannot bear the thought of anyone else laying claim to these walls. It is ours, yours and mine, as it has been since we returned. We fought for it together now sit beside me and let us keep it together.”

  
They stood staring at each other a great chasm of differences between them and yet alike in thought. What she was suggesting unsettled Jon and yet answered so many of his questions. What wouldn’t he do for Winterfell, for the North? What wouldn’t he give to see his family safe? It was everything he wanted but not the way he’d imagined. How many times had he pictured himself Lord of Winterfell?

  
“Jon?”

  
His eyes fell against her, “I don’t love you… not the way a husband should.”

  
Inhaling a deep breath, she felt herself settle. “I never want to be loved that way again so the prospect appeals to me rather than grates.”

  
The answer was cold and it made him tremendously sad, “Now with those monsters so fresh in your mind you care nothing. In ten years you may feel different.”

  
“You mean you may feel different? You may finally be released from your grief and long for love again?”

  
Not able to answer with the thoughts of Daenerys to close to the surface, his eyes moved back against the fire. The Queen of Fire and Blood had burned through his life and was blown away so quickly…

  
He thought of Ygritte, how he had truly loved her. Looking back at Sansa he felt the query in his heart. “I can’t.”

  
The answer wasn’t surprising but Sansa still felt extraordinary sadness. When he made a move to come close to her she put up her hand, “Don’t comfort me.”

  
“It is not my desire to hurt you…”

  
She shook her head, “I’m not surprised but admit once again I struggle to not be angry.  This alliance would make political sense.  Just like you once said to me.”

  
His brow furrowed, her words hedging so close to the truth. “I’ll go.”

  
“No.” Her voice was resolute. “Still you do not understand me…” Her voice trailed off, the shape of her eyes spoke of her regret.

  
“I will not be the one to ask you to leave. But I will fear for you when I do take a husband.”

  
Her voice turned deeper as she looked at him, “You… You saved us Jon. You saved me. You and your dragon queen.”

  
He looked away, was he ashamed? For many, many things he felt regret, but not of their victory. No, that was the one good thing that had come from his alliance with the Mother of Dragons.

  
Continuing her tone remained calm. The way she’d come to address him, soft like a bird, yet unyielding, like the wolf that stood for her house. “I know I was harsh when you first returned. I was angry because I thought you had abandoned… us.” She paused before she said the last word, almost replacing it by mistake. “You were right in the end.”  
A deep sigh escaped her, “And despite the truth of your history some of the Northern lords may not always see things that way. They may forget the victory and hear only ‘fire and blood’ and see you atop Rhaegal when they look upon you. And if it is not those images that fly through their heads, my husband may not stand for it, considering your past as king.”

  
There was much wisdom in her words, showing that she had learned many things from her time as child in King’s Landing. He looked up seeing her flushed face, her parted lips. He breathed out slowly, “Who will he be?”

  
“Someone lowly born with no castle or lands, or name- I will not leave Winterfell as I have said. I am determined to find someone who is tolerable.”

  
“Did you mean to tolerate me?” The words were spoken truly, wholly curious, but he regretted the roughness to the edge.

  
A slight flush covered her ivory skin. Sansa let out a breath of heavy air. “I meant to rule with you Jon, to truly share our home together. To love each other as best we could and preserve the legacy of our family. Perhaps there was a time when I did tolerate you-but I was a stupid little girl then, and that girl is gone.”

  
This time when he approached she didn’t turn away, “I know you are not my sister but… You will need heirs and I couldn’t give you that.”

  
The blue depths of her eyes spoke to him of her sincerity, “I don’t want to marry you to make you a prisoner… I just thought that if we had each other, no one could rip us away from our home again.”

  
When he said nothing she laid her hand against his arm, “You’re right- we may not be brother and sister, and it would take time to… to be different with each other. But I am already accustomed to you,” she smiled sadly. “And I would rather make heirs in the safety of your arms than the cold grasp of stranger.”

  
A deep red flush covered his skin, shocked by her admission. His arm flexed under her hands. He repeated himself again, “I couldn’t.”

  
Unrelenting she continued, “We are the North and we belong here. I do not want to share it with anyone else. Winterfell is our home. Until I stand in the Godswood and say my vows, I will hope you will reconsider.”

  
As the door closed behind her, Ghost followed and sat staring up at it whining as her footsteps descended through the corridor. Jon called his direwolf to his side and sank back into his chair. His head went into his hands. Sansa… Sansa?

  
Thinking about what this would mean for his future, he took in a deep breath. Would the Northern Lords really force him out? He thought about Sansa marrying a stranger, a third man that she didn’t want. Her suggestion rolled through him and his insides twisted. What would father think?

  
“Eddard Stark was not your father.”

  
The sound of his own voice in his empty chambers caused Ghost’s red eyes to fall on his face. He saw the question in the direwolf’s eyes as his own questions rolled through him and over him with unrelenting fortitude. The Great War was over but for Jon Snow, the Long Night had just begun.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her mouth softened, coming open, she tried to understand him. “It’s true we haven’t always agreed, and I am not saying we will. It won’t be like the songs…” She tilted her head, “But I am past wanting any of that now.”

As the castle walls became alive with the news of Lady Sansa’s engagement, Jon found he grew more and more discontent. Sansa’s behavior toward him had not changed. She still sought him out and discussed the men and the ruling of Winterfell with him. They shared their meals together, both in the Great Hall and privately when she was too tired to eat with the people. However, the peace they’d built together became taut, strained during their private evenings together. She would catch his eye and he would hold hers, their private conversation floating between them. Her eyes would almost beg him, “Have you changed your mind?” And yet, his only response was a sharp inhale and deep exhale of air.

She’d waited several moons, until she could no longer pacify the other lords. Following her lead, he continued to support her after she spoke to him of her intended marriage to Gendry “Baretheon”. The bravery he’d shown during the war had appealed to Jon and he seemed kind enough. The fact that he was indeed a bastard didn’t seem to bother the ruling lords as it might have in a world long since past. Perhaps it was because he was the very last of a great house, a house that reminded people of the past, the seed of a man who had ruled during a time that had felt familiar.

His whole life he’d believed the very same of himself, and yet it bothered Jon, thinking of Sansa married against her will. It even seemed that Gendry would make a loyal husband and allow her to remain at Winterfell, having no claim to his ancestral home.

And still the pit in his stomach would grow as he thought about the future just as she described. He would sink into his cup of ale as he tried not to think of her, forced to make heirs in the cold grasp of a stranger.

#

 

“Ill?” Jon stared up at the maester over his breakfast. “What do you mean she has fallen ill?”

Maester Wolkan looked towards his former king, “Your cousin was out riding with her betrothed and came inside complaining of a headache. I made her a tea and sent her to bed. This morning she is unable to rise, debilitated by a fever.”

His eyes blinked rapidly as Jon felt his heartbeat pound in his ears. Sansa was strong now, more like steel. Despite the sadness wrought by the long night she had endured all of it. Duty had molded itself into her bones and she had been resolute under the strain of her pain.

“Where is she?” Jon stood and tucked his shirt into his breeches. Tearing off one more hunk of bread he stuffed it into his mouth and wiped his hands over himself. Pulling on his jerkin, he began to fasten it down the front.

“In her chambers my lord. A maid is with her- should I inform Lord Baratheon?”

 _Lord Baratheon_? His teeth ground together, “I will talk to Gendry after I have seen Lady Sansa.”

The maester nodded his head and left, leaving Jon to ready himself the rest of the way alone. Sansa had held herself together through the war, through the death of their entire family. Meticulously she had been putting Winterfell back together, slowly over the past years, stone by stone. He was not willingly that she should suffer anything, and if she must then he would not let it be alone. Vows made in a time past shouldn’t matter, but his words to her mattered to him. If anything mattered in this world that was left, his promise should.

#

 

The third night of her sickness was the worst. Jon’s appearance was wholly disheveled; his clothes rumbled and his dark curls falling into his eyes. Still, he stayed by Sansa’s side determined that he would not leave her.

Gendry had been in and out of the room; clearly distressed by the state he found his betrothed. He too was dealing with the white ghosts of the past. Watching Arya die and a thousand unvoiced desires die along with her was now being relived as he watched Sansa suffer.

Jon knew when he disappeared he went out into the woods beyond Winterfell. Somewhere out there in the depth of winter, Nymeria still roamed free. Perhaps it gave him solace to be with Arya’s wolf, as if a piece of herself still lived somewhere inside the wild animal. He looked over at Ghost who sat loyal on the opposite side of Sansa’s bed, he too unwilling to leave her side.

Gendry’s commitment to Sansa was sincere, despite the confusion of the past. The truth that Gendry’s father had killed Jon’s father was an awkward part of the present circumstances, but they were navigating the idea of being family as best they could. Robert was never a father to Gendry, just as Rhaegar had never been one to Jon.

And besides all the histories of their families, Jon knew that he would make a good husband to his former sister, and be loyal to her. Sometimes Jon wondered if it was all in the name of his relationship with Arya, but honestly now it mattered not. He would be more apt to keep his vow based on truth of his heart.

Taking the cloth, Jon once again wiped the strain of her sickness from her pale brow. Sansa’s hair floated around her head, engulfing the pillow with color. Jon prayed, to the old gods and the new, even the accursed god of fire for her salvation. This strange world would go completely black without her. It had been Sansa’s light that had brought him back from his death, not just once but twice. He would fight alongside of her as long as her body drew breath. Everything after her was bathed in the darkness.

Tonight she suffered greatly, the fever peaking higher as the night grew deeper. The maester had fallen into a light sleep in a chair by the fire and Jon had let him. Sansa’s head moved back and forth her words unintelligible mostly until his name came from her lips.

“Jon…”

He came to her and sat against the bed leaning close, “Sansa?”

The blue of her eyes dulled, “He promised. He promised…” Tears fell against her cheeks.

“Who? Who promised?” He touched her brow again.

“He said he would be merciful. He told me he would send him to the wall. To you. And I believed him…”

He cupped her cheek, “Do you mean father?”

“I’m a stupid girl. I am so sorry…” Her eyes closed and she shook her body raging with fever. She sobbed in her torment, the past unrelenting.

Holding her fast he leaned into her. “Can you hear me Sansa?” Her lids flooded open, trying to stay with him.

He placed his forehead against hers, “That was not your fault.” His arms were completely under her, his strength bringing her slightly off the bed. “You are a wolf, the blood of Winterfell and you will survive this storm.”

He watched her eyes close and he released her back onto the pillows. Taking up his cloth he touched her gently, cooling her brow again.

 

#

 

Over the course of the night Sansa woke several more times with pieces of stories and secrets. Jon sat close all night, listening to the instructions of the maester and trying to cool the fever that ravaged her slight body.

Most of the words she spoke were meaningless to Jon, but some struck deep, bringing potent memories to his mind.

“He’s not coming back Arya.” Sansa’s words were not feathery on this subject but wholly assured and it made a great pain strike his heart.

“He’s a dragon now.”

“He was never our brother.”

“He must love her very much… to surrender Winterfell.”

“The North is his home but she is his queen…”

Again and again Sansa spoke in her torment of his choices before the war. He wondered if these had truly been conversations or was just broken pieces of her subconscious that had been mulling through her mind since his return.

The unpleasantness of her words didn’t drive him from her side, but made him more determined to see her back to health. If she would rouse and rally he would spend what little time they had left before her wedding to prove that despite his choices, he had never lost his loyalty to the North, or Winterfell, or to her.

Near dawn Gendry came in again. Jon tried not to struggle as he moved away from the bed. Sansa’s eyes remained closed but Gendry, taking Jon’s seat, reached for her hand anyway. Leaning forward he spoke no words but closed his eyes, perhaps beseeching whatever god he believed in to save her as well.

Jon’s eyes narrowed on where their fingers touched and turned away. It was difficult to admit, but he was ashamed he’d told Sansa no- ashamed that he couldn’t be brave and marry her as she asked.

Not loving each other the right way was a sacrifice she was willing to make, he’d seen her interact with Gendry enough to know she didn’t care for him in that way. She had promised she would find someone with no lands, no titles so she could live her remaining days in Winterfell, and so she had.

The space between them should be growing wider as the date of the vows approached. And yet, he had never felt her pulling away from him, she was merely waiting on him. Exactly as she had assured him she would:

 _“Until I stand in the Godswood and say my vows, I will hope you will_ reconsider.”

Jon turned back toward them, watching the cloth move over her brow by another’s hand. Letting out a huge breath of air, he moved to the fire to try and find a few hours of sleep.

#

The night was over as Sansa felt clarity sink back into her pores, her lids fluttered open. Sweet comfort moved through her as she felt a rough hand in hers. Closing her eyes again she moved her fingers through his.

“M’lady?”

Disappointment snapped her eyes opened as she tried to wash the surprise from her features. “How long has it been?”

A small smile played on his lips, “Nearly four days now, but the maester says the worst is gone. You are going to be fine Lady Sansa.”

She tried to return his smile, but it was false and she didn’t have the energy to pretend, not today. “Where is Jon?”

“Here.” His rough voice pulled her eyes to the other side of her bed. Elbows on his knees he leaned forward to her, his eyes so gentle she knew if she didn’t blink she would break.

“You were here weren’t you?”

Holding her stare he felt his body move toward her eyes. The spark of blue was stronger today, the sickness having lost against her tenacity. He sat against her bed and took the hand she reached out between them. “Aye, I was here.”

There were no more words that were necessary, not between the two of them. Lacing their fingers together Sansa felt herself blush under the steady gaze of his stare.

Gendry released her hand and stood, clearing his throat. “M’lady I will leave you to your rest.”

Sansa retaining Jon’s hand, inclined her head toward him, “Thank you my lord- I hope to join you again soon in the Great Hall.”

His smile was muted but no less genuine, he leaned forward and took her hand again laying his lips against her skin. “I will come and check on you at midday.”

Maester Wolkan stood where Gendry had been and spoke to Jon, “My lord, there are some things that I need to discuss with Lady Sansa.”

Jon shrugged and looked toward her. “It would seem I am being asked to leave.”

The blue of her eyes dulled again. “I will release you only if you promise to come back at midday.”

His head went down and his mouth became a firm line, “I shouldn’t-”

“You should.”

The words twisted in his gut.

#

 

In the evening well after the meal, Jon made his way towards Sansa’s chambers. Since she’d recovered from her sickness, they had not spent much time together. As her wedding day was rapidly approaching, Gendry was always by her side. Hoping tonight he would find Sansa alone, Jon longed to ease the heaviness that grew in his stomach.

Remembering those nights of silent companionship, or easy conversation, when they had forgone the discussion of her marriage and woven themselves together again as a family made the pit hollow out into an ache. Sitting for hours he would watch her sew, the crackle of the fire being enough for them. Most evenings, no words were exchanged; just the soft smiles of a strange kinship. In the secret places of his heart, the desire to protect her, just as he’d vowed was stronger now, growing as she was so close to belonging to another.

“Was I right to tell you m’lady?” The man’s voice floated from beyond her partially opened door. Jon stopped just outside of it, curious that there was no guard present.

“Forgive me my lord…” Her voice sounded faint and weak. Jon fought the urge to storm into the room.

“I don’t even think there was much discussion about it… As soon as the news of your sickness was shared they began making these plans.”

“Does Jon know?”

Gendry cleared his throat, “Of course not m’lady… He would never take Winterfell from you.”

“And the fact that he’s a Targaryen?”

“Half Stark,” Gendry amended. “He’s the nephew of the last true Warden of the North- I suppose that’s why they mean to let him rule Winterfell, at least until we have…”

She ignored that, “I am the daughter of the last true warden of the North! It astounds me that these men have any say at all. And there is no proof that my sickness has changed anything.”

A chair moved inside the room. Jon guessed that Sansa stood again coming towards Gendry. “You know what this means? You understand with this turn I cannot be your wife. I mean never again to leave this place. And my children will be the heirs of Winterfell, not of any other place.”

It was quiet for several moments and then he spoke his words gently, “I would have been loyal to you Sansa… I couldn’t marry you knowing you did not have the full truth. Your sister and I were friends at the beginning of this, as were our fathers. I would like to honor them, even though they are gone now. This is was the only thing I could do.”

“And you are truly a man worthy of a wife who will follow you to the Stormlands. I cannot be that person Lord Baratheon, but I am happy for you all the same.”

Jon waited but the silence continued. He moved his head and peaked around the door. A flash went through him as he watched Gendry move his lips away from her. He clenched his jaw.

“As far as it depends on me, my house will support you as Lady of Winterfell, married or not.”

Sansa touched his cheek much like a sister would, “We cannot forget my cousin either. He is as loyal and brave as any other man. Even though he is not my brother, he has much claim on Winterfell as I. I’m not sure where things will go from here.”

“I won’t out stay my welcome here my lady. I will retrieve my men but I will leave the gifts, meager as they are, since I am the one breaking faith.”

“You have not broken faith with me my lord.”

“Let us keep that between us?”

Sansa nodded, “If that is what you would like.”

“Farewell my lady.”

Jon made his way into the shadows of the hall. Completely out of sight he made sure he was hidden. When Baratheon had descended down the corridor Jon entered the room quietly.

Sansa leaned over the table, a white dress laid against the rough wood. Her eyes met his and then flicked away back to her work.

“Who betrayed you?”

Her shoulders slumped, “Does it really matter?”

“I didn’t know Sansa. I would have come to you if I had.”

“Oh, Jon…” She sat down, her brow knit. “You are the last person I would blame.”

Coming to sit beside her, he reached out to touch her, “What will you do?”

Her blue eyes met his dark ones, “I don’t know what I can do now. It seems that the Northern men just want to ship me off to make an heir… And now with this rumor that my fever may have destroyed my ability to do just that, what use am I? They and all their armies will support you as Lord of Winterfell in this new government that’s been formed.” She let out a puff of air, “Sansa Stark is still a naïve and stupid girl.”

Standing abruptly his skin burned. “Curse duty and hang honor. Where has that ever led?”

His tone elevated, pulling her eyes to his. “Tell those lords that they can take their demands and go back to their own castles because I will refuse them. The world is changed now, the old rules shouldn’t matter.”

“And yet they do.” She stood approaching him. “Is the world so different? Are men so different?” Her tone grew sharp. “I still must marry.”

“But why?”

She growled chest heaving, “You know why! The Starks endure. We always have and now I must... Winterfell needs an heir.”

The words were not bitter but matter of fact. His insides twisted as she rubbed her brow with her hand. He looked over to the table where the beautiful dress was laid out letting their argument fade. “Did you make it all yourself?”

Her head came up, “What do you care about needlework?”

A huff of air left his chest, “In truth I care nothing for it, but I can see you have done something quite extraordinary.” Touching the fabric, his eyes fell against another garment. It looked much like the one she’d given him at Castle Black.

“What’s this?” The slight bite to his voice was unintentional but quite suddenly the idea of her making gifts for another person offended him. “Was this for him?”

Sansa looked at him strangely as she came to stand beside him. “Look closely.” She rested her hand close to his and he noticed the details he hadn’t before.

There engraved into the leather was the proud direwolf sigil of House Stark and then along the other strap was the dragon of House Targaryen.

“It’s yours Jon. It was for you to wear when you gave me away at my wedding.”

His emotion was hard to quantify, “You wanted me to give you away?”

“You are the last of my family Jon Snow, Aegon Targaryen, Lord of Winterfell… Who have I besides you?”

It was the worst and best thing his ears could have heard. Coming forward he laid his hand across her stony cheek. He let the wisps of her hair wrap in his fingers. The answer was so simple and terribly complicated. In truth, there was no part of him that wanted to give her away.

The flush of that realization disconcerted him, causing his gaze to cast down. His eyes fell against her lips as he focused on their color. They weren’t red like her hair or even as rosy as her winter kissed cheeks. Their hue resembled the shades of sunset, like the flowers he remembered as a boy of summer.

Though confused by his touch, Sansa was strangely comforted by the unfamiliar emotion she felt under his hands. Many men had touched her, and she had been forced to endure their empty smiles and their violence. Even Gendry, who had been immeasurably kind, had failed to stir any life in her with his touch.

She knew men and she understood the questions that Jon was asking himself. He was so good, too good really for her; as children her compassion toward him had been vacant. She hated the idea of him giving up his freedom for her, but wanted it just the same. It was selfish and it was necessary for the Starks, now more than ever.

Sweet, words of gentle coaching spread like poison through her memory, but she abandoned them as soon as the haunting voices rose from the past. The desire to use any of her charms against him left her bereft of any hope for her own goodness. He deserved so much more than her, so she spoke sincerely to the query she saw in his eyes.

“I am of the North, the blood of Winterfell. My father raised us both. You once thought I was your sister, but I am not.” Her voice rose a little, “Be honest with me Jon, for I am not as fragile as you think.”

Upon hearing his own words about her, now given back to him, caused the eerie rightness burn hotter in his gut. He took his hand from her, “I fear we will grow to resent each other.”

“You mean you may grow to resent me?”

Shaking his head he was adamant, “No- I mean…” What did he mean?

Her mouth softened, coming open, she tried to understand him. “It’s true we haven’t always agreed, and I am not saying we will. It won’t be like the songs…” She tilted her head, “But I am past wanting any of that now.”

He took in a deep breath of air, “During your sickness everything was dark without you Sansa. I wouldn’t take you as my wife just to protect you or myself…”

“Then let us endure. Let us rule, protecting ourselves from those that have tried to wipe the Starks from this earth.”

The lines on Jon’s face dug deeper, a heavy burden fell against his heart at the truth of her suggestion.

“And if the maester is wrong about my sickness," she continued pressing forward. "If there were children…”

Warmth came over him, his breath leaving in a deep exhale, “They would be the irrevocable heirs of Winterfell.”

In her mind she saw them, strong sons with auburn or dark hair, with blue eyes like the Tullys or grey eyes like the Starks. Such a pain struck her heart as she mourned the loss of these imagined children. As she looked at Jon and her eyes filled with long forgotten tears, “And they would be Northern Kings.”

“And if they had silver hair?”

She considered him, his stoic features and weathered brow. His thoughts mirroring hers, though different, gave her the courage to speak. She reached between them taking his hands, “Then I would love them because they are like their father. They would be brave, and they would be gentle and they would be strong.” Laying her hand across his chest, she whispered her confidence in him, “You will not fail me Jon.”

He thought about being able to give her a babe. He trembled, “I might.”

“And my body might fail you.” Her eyes arched in challenge, “Should that stop us from at least trying to secure what is ours?”

Back to her lips his eyes fell, “After I denied you and almost was the cause of you being exiled from your home?”

Fresh tears filled her eyes, “Would you have me? Truly?”

In his mind he saw himself beside her in the Godswood, the only outcome he could abide. “You said it yourself, who have we but each other?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ygritte and Daenerys flashed through his mind and he remembered what their love had felt like. Perhaps he would always feel them, as they were both part of him and his journey to this moment. But it wasn’t Ygritte’s hair or Dany’s violet eyes that were his any longer. They were gone; vanished with long night that had passed...

The afternoon light was fading, the gray darkness giving birth to night. The weakness of muted sun, made Jon sense the winter deeper in his bones, merging, becoming part of him.

 

His footsteps were heavy, the burden of his cloak and furs necessary on this day. Although there had already been years of winter, it was incessant, her wind seemingly stronger as each day passed.

 

As he turned a corridor, heading back to the Great Keep from the Maester’s Turret, he passed the library tower. His head should be swimming with the daily demands of running the castle and awash in the amount of grain available in the storehouses, but all he could think about was Sansa. The breath caught in his chest and he could feel the warmth of his palms under the leather of his gloves. His cousin was to be his wife.

 

The cold air burned his lungs as he sucked it in like water. The burden of responsibility had been heavy on his shoulders, even before the war. His failures at Castle Black still marked in deep trenches on his flesh and in his soul. Painfully, the loss of Ser Davos made his spirit sink deeper. His counsel would be invaluable now more than ever. The duty he felt towards Sansa was not new, but his experience with her had taught him she was different. At the very least, the stakes were higher; after all he’d already made so many mistakes with her.

 

With his eyes forward, he reminded himself of her acceptance of the whole situation. She was aware of his emotions, what they were and what they were not, and she still wanted him.

_“And they would be brave, and gentle and strong…”_

 

A strange feeling had settled in his chest, that night when she’d opened herself up, sharing her thoughts of bearing him sons. It was difficult for him to reconcile, his actions and her faith in him.

 

If he was brave and strong, it was only because he was afraid, just as Lord Stark had taught him when he was a boy. A pair of violet eyes came to mind and he shook his head in disgust. She had come to see the truth, his choices and secrets anything but gentle. Still, with Sansa left standing, the consequences were worth it in the end.

 

With his eyes still averted, his thoughts full, mixing of heat and shame, his boot caught a wayward board and he put his hands out, catching himself against a slab of gray stone.

 

Pausing, Jon placed his hands against the wall, hanging his head. In truth, the hush of this side of the castle still haunted him. The ghosts of past surely lived strongest among these dead parts of Winterfell, a thousand childhood memories that had died along with his family still breathed life in this ancient stone.

 

Burned and scarred, these towers still showed remnants of the past wars. Mostly, damaged from Theon’s treachery, he and Sansa had not had the time or the resources to restore it.

 

“My lord?”

 

Jon looked over seeing a knight approach him. “Ser Selle? What brings you to this part of the castle?”

 

The man looked around him, “If I am here to help protect your hold then I ought to know my way about the place.” He eyes fell back over Jon, “Are you quite right?”

 

Jon nodded, “Quite, just the ruin that caught my boot.” He smiled, as he looked back up, “And how do you find Winterfell?”

 

His smile was tinged in sadness, “Almost feels like home.”

 

“I know things have been quiet these past years, but men are predictable, and if the histories teach us anything we must be ready for what comes next.”

 

The guard was silent for a time, the snow pelting the walls filling the lull in their conversation. “And what does come next my lord? I saw the men arriving earlier. You and Lady Stark are preparing a feast for them?”

 

“A celebration,” he cleared his throat. “Of sorts.”

 

“The Lady Stark’s wedding?”

 

Jon nodded, the right words eluding him.

 

A strange looked passed the man’s face, the light in his eyes a glimpse that Jon almost recognized. He looked away, “Is there anything you require then?”

 

“No.” Jon noticed it again, raising his eyebrow, “You served with me during the war?”

 

A faraway look glistened in the man’s eye, “Right beside you, I came north from the Riverlands.”

 

“Thank you again soldier. Those days are better left behind us.” He looked at the older man knowingly, “You can be about your business.”

Nodding, the knight turned away from Jon and made his way back down the corridor.

 

When the sound of his footsteps had receded, a new sound pricked his senses. He strained his ear and looked toward the library. The whimper was faint, but as his feet carried him forward, he recognized it as a woman’s muffled crying. And there was only one who would be found in this wreckage.

 

The doors to the library were gone, pieces of their skeleton remained hanging dangerously from the frame.  He knocked one over and stepped in, the loss of the splendor of his home once again punching him in the gut. 

 

The shelves were nearly empty, the beautiful books strewn across the dead rushes on the floor.  His nose caught a whiff of stale air, followed by mildew and decay.  He looked around the circular room, seeing a hunched over figure on the second level just beyond the winding stairs. 

 

“Who’s there?” He called out, just to be sure, as he made his way up the creaking steps.  It wasn’t long before he caught the color of her hair, her soft cries achingly familiar to him.  

Kneeling down beside her he took in their surroundings.  In front of her she’d laid out some type of record keeping books, the careful manuscript certainly that of a maester.  Her hands were pressed hard against the papers and her hair fell down, blocking her face from his view. 

 

“What are you reading?”

 

The tears were gone now, “The pages of histories.” 

 

She tucked her hair behind her ears and then closed the books.  Looking up into Jon’s face she questioned him, “Are we fools?”

 

He shrugged, “Maybe.”  The ends of his lips turned upwards into a soft smile, “Probably.” 

 

The lightness he exuded lifted her spirit slightly.  “Can I be honest with you?”

 

A full chuckle came from his chest, “When have you been anything but honest?”

 

Mouth open, her lips smiled, “That’s true.” 

 

She pulled herself away from him slightly, her legs coming under her body.  “I felt great relief when she died.  And I had no sadness for the loss you felt.”  

 

His eyes got serious, noting the candor in her voice.  “I know that.”

 

“I didn’t think you would come for me, when Cersei held me in King’s Landing.”

 

“I know that too.”

 

Her brow furrowed, “Do you know everything?”

 

This made him smile, an ancient pain slicing his memory.  He whispered to her, “I know some things.”

 

Looking out over the room, Sansa inhaled a deep breath.  “Do you think me cruel?”           

 

The comment haunted him, his secrets buried along with what was left of his father’s family.  A shudder went through his body, “None of it matters anymore.”

 

“I want to believe that.”

 

He reached out, fiddling with his gloves, “Were you crying Sansa?”

 

“Please don’t ask me that question Jon, at least not on this day.”

 

Looking down at his leather clad hands he pulled in a deep breath of air, “Are you ready for this?  Once we do there is no going back.”

 

“Are you?”

He pulled back slightly and considered her.  The gray of his eyes stormy, remembering the focus of his thoughts this day.  “I am.”

 

Sansa licked her lips, a small grin forming, “Don’t you forget whose idea this was.”

 

Through his nose he pulled in a deep breath.  When he let it out his words were soft and quick, “Won’t you tell me then why you are up here in this ruin of tower?  Crying over these pages?”

 

The color seeped into her cheeks and her arms came about herself.  “Not today- but one day.  I promise you I will.” 

 

“Alright,” he leaned forward. “Keep your secrets, but we can’t stay here amongst them.”  He stood offering her his hand, “It’s time to get changed for the feast.”

 

#

 

The ceremony was to be handled quietly, without much bustle or celebration.  Though it was not forgotten that the Bastard of Winterfell was Aegon Targaryen and not the son of Eddard Stark, winter town became a flurry as the news traveled down amongst the people.  As the guests arrived for the feast and learned of the marriage, the stir that had overtaken Winterfell spread on raven’s wings, fluttering over the North and the rest of the continent.  The last dragon was to marry the last wolf.

 

The night before their vows, Jon and Sansa sat in the Great Hall.  Side by side they answered the questions and concerns of what was left of their bannerman. 

Braziers flamed hot and soft candles lit the room.  Boots of thick leather moved across the stone floor, Northerners huddled together, arms crossed and faces as stern as the cold.

 

“What would your father say?”

 

Looking toward Sansa, Jon saw her brow fretted in worry.  He stood and addressed Lord Manderly. “My lord, do you mean my uncle or my real father Rhaegar Targaryen?”

 

He watched the people shift in there unease.  Saviors of the realm or not, Targaryens were not loved in the North.  He cleared his throat, “I honestly don’t know what Lord Stark would say.  The entirety of his life I was made to believe that I was his son.  I know now that he did it to protect me from Robert Baratheon who would have killed me, regardless of their friendship.”

 

Jon continued, “And my real father? Only the gods could know his mind.”

 

The great hall was quiet and all the remaining lords that had once declared him ‘King in the North’ sat starring at him with curious eyes.  He knew their thoughts, for they were his own.  What kind of a man marries a woman he once believed to be his sister? 

 

“Though I don’t know what Lord Stark’s feelings would be about me marrying his daughter, I did know Lord Stark and I remember his actions.  He was a man that avenged his family for the wrong done to them.  He lied to all of you in order to keep a promise to my mother, Lady Lyanna.  He kept the vow his family made to Lady Sansa’s mother and married her- if anything Lord Stark was a man of honor, a man who kept his promises.”

 

“When Lady Sansa,” he looked down at her the memory sweeping between them, “escaped her captivity and came to Castle Black, I made a promise to her.  I told her I would protect her and that I would keep her safe.”

 

“You were her brother then!”

 

“Aye, I thought I was, but my vow is not lessened because we are not siblings.  Indeed my lords the bonds of family do connect Lady Stark and I.  And just as her lord father kept his vows, I mean to keep mine.”

 

“And which House’s sigil will you cloak over her?  Targaryen or Stark?”

 

Jon looked toward Sansa who stood up beside him, “Both my lords.”

 

“That is not how it works.”  This from what was left of House Hornwood.

 

Her Tully eyes stared down at the group of them, “And yet it will be done.  We are only a few left here my lords and ladies.”  She nodded toward Lady Jonelle of House Cerwyn.

 

 “Houses that have existed for centuries were wiped out in a few moments and we stand squabbling about a wedding.  Jon was your king, he is your choice for Lord of Winterfell and he is a Targaryen and he is a Stark.  Both sigils will emblazon the cloak at the ceremony tomorrow night.”

 

“And your children?  What name will they have?”

 

The question hung in the air between the unlikely pair.  Visions of dark and light haired children floated between them, their private conversations spilling onto their cheeks, in shades of pink.  Despite their care for each other and the appeal of the thought of heirs, the act required to have them was hard to contemplate without difficulty.  Each understood their duty, and Jon felt his pulse spike, flustered at the thought.

 

Eyes of ice and fire clashed together as Jon and Sansa spoke without words.  What would they say?  That they didn’t know if they could ever have children?  That perhaps they would love each other the best way they could and that House Stark may end with them?

 

Immediate rebellion met Sansa at that thought. House Stark would not die!  That was not the legacy that her family deserved. Joffrey, Ramsey and the scars that littered her skin would not be the victors.

 

She pulled back her shoulders, her words very simple, singing with fate and memory, “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

 

Jon felt her voice move through him, a deep conviction at the preciseness of her words.  Her bravery struck him suddenly, as he stared at her resolute features.  He nodded his head in agreement despite his inability to fathom such an act, “Aye my lady and there always will be.”

 

#

 

The snow did not fall from the skies the night of Sansa’s marriage to Jon.  She wanted nothing about this night to remind her of her first marriage in Winterfell.  It was dangerous to think about that part of her life too long.  The torment would inevitably swallow her and the scars, both on her body and in her mind, would begin to burn from the pain.

 

  Winter wind blew her red hair as her feet carried her toward the heart tree.  The darkness made the shadows dance against the flickering of the braziers that flamed in front of her.  The small party had assembled as she came upon the group. 

 

The lords of the North who had gathered for the ceremony were few, making the witnesses around the Godswood sparse unlike Sansa’s marriage to Ramsey. This time, there was no one to give her away and she was happy for it.  Briefly, Theon floated into her thoughts and she looked away.  Images of her childhood, her siblings and her parents painted their colors through her mind.  So many people she loved were ashes and yet she had endured- the last Stark of Winterfell.

 

As the people of her past visited her, Jon’s bundled form came into view.  His eyes twinkled, and his head tilted and lips twitched into a half smile that melted over her with care that was singularly his own.

Whatever fate that had brought them here, in this moment, the pair surrendered fully to the other.  They accepted their duty and their vows wholly for the other and not themselves. The foundation of their partnership had always been the bonds of family, but as time had moved forward, their commitment was far more than obligation.

 

“Who comes before the Old God’s this night?”

 

The lady spoke for herself, “Sansa, of the House Stark, comes here to be wed.”

 

“Who comes to claim her?”

 

Once the bastard of Winterfell, Jon came forward in the gift Sansa had made him. “Aegon, of the House Targaryen called Jon of House Stark.”

 

“Lady Sansa, do you take this man?”

 

“I take this man.”

 

Both came forward and joined hands and knelt in front of the heart tree.  Jon kept his eyes on her the entire time his mind awash in the promises he was undertaking.  He observed her reverent posture and admired her anew, noting the strength that remained in her, in spite of all she’d lived through. 

 

Standing carefully he removed the cloak that shrouded her shoulders.  True to their word, he wrapped his own around hers, emblazoned with the sigil of Stark and Targaryen. 

 

Briefly, he thought of Bran who had described the marriage of his mother and father.  All those years ago his parents had ignited the flame that had burned through the seven kingdoms.  And years later here they knelt; a Targaryen and a Stark, trying to put one of those kingdoms back together.  Swallowing hard, he looked over his bride.   Helping her onto her feet he kept his hands on her. 

 

Looking up into his dark eyes her stomach dropped.  A foolish thought came, unwanted, pouring into her mind.  For a brief moment, she allowed herself to feel like the Sansa she’d been as a little girl, always dreaming of marrying a prince.    It made her feel strong, whole, as if the monsters of her past weren’t real.   The tender smile spread across her face, reveling in hopes that had strangely come to pass.

 

Taking her face within his hands Jon remembered the moment he’d held her on the battlements after they’d defeated Ramsey and reclaimed Winterfell.  Shameful as such thoughts were he remembered the relief he’d experienced holding her, astounded in their victory, grateful that she survived.  He’d wanted to kiss her then, just for her to feel his appeal to trust him.  And now she smiled at him so gently it made his whole body flush with…

 

Ygritte and Daenerys flashed through his mind and he remembered what their love had felt like.  Perhaps he would always feel them, as they were both part of him and his journey to this moment.  But it wasn’t Ygritte’s hair or Dany’s violet eyes that were his any longer.  They were gone; vanished with long night that had passed.

 

Under his hands now was spring, crystal blue eyes and rosy cheeks, a Stark.  A promise of a legacy that he’d always dreamed of having, Sansa stood; fully his and he enveloped her completely. 

 

His arms were warm and whole and Sansa accepted the promise he gave her.  Such a feeling of peace overcame her that she pulled back determined for him to know, no matter what measure of love he could offer her she would be loyal, standing by him from this day until the end of her days. 

 

Just before she could speak he rested his lips against her forehead.  He pulled back and whispered to her, “Winterfell belongs to you now my lady.”

 

Her eyes pooled with grateful tears, “Not just to me Jon. Winterfell is truly ours now.”

 

And hidden in the trees, beneath the shadowy light of the braziers, there was not just one wolf that watched the marriage take place that night, but there were two. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse of the next chapter... 
> 
> Leading her slowly they both paused standing in front of their bed. Sansa blinked rapidly, the howling of the wind rushing in her ears. 
> 
> Jon found her hand, “It would help if you tell me which side is yours.” 
> 
> A lump formed in her throat once again thinking she was wholly unworthy of his care. Unable to speak she moved toward the far side of the bed. 
> 
> The flickering of the fire comforted them both as they lay down the exhaustion of the day filling both of them. Wrapping the heavy furs around them he trembled as his hand reached across the linen and found hers. 
> 
> “Jon…” Her voice cracked.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turning towards her, a rush of certainty disorientated him, warmth that collected in his chest and spread across his face. The winter sun peaked through the open window, wrapping her in the flares of morning. The white shift was covered with a thick robe, soft blue like a winter rose. Her hair, loose from its braid, tousled in red waves down to the middle of her back and sense of clarity came over him.

The crackling of the fire greeted Jon and Sansa as the door closed behind them.  The chambers that had once belonged to Sansa alone would now be shared with her lord husband.  She gestured toward the corner of the room.  “I hope it was alright to tell them to bring your things.”

Jon acknowledged his trunk and other familiar items and nodded.  He looked up into her eyes and noticed her expression.  “I wasn’t sure you would want me here.”

“It is what is expected.”

“It’s strange?”

She agreed, “You know it is.” 

A tension that had built in his chest released slightly as he came towards her.  Looking down over her his words were quiet. “Are you hungry?  I see they have laid out quite a feast for us.”

Smoothing out her white dress she looked up into his dark eyes and nodded.  He gestured toward the meal, allowing her to sit first.  Moving around the table, Jon pulled out a chair and sat beside her.    

Spread out for them was bread, cheeses, delicate meats, wine and ale to wash it down with.  They tried to eat, but the silence was awkward the events of the evening consuming their minds.

They had chosen a private wedding feast for this very reason.  Sitting in front of their guests and sharing a meal had not appealed to either of them.  Yet, even in their solitude, the drastic change in their relationship superseded everything else.

Looking up Jon’s eyes caught hers and he saw the fear there.  Taking a deep breath, he laid his hand over hers.

He touched her with a tender sorrow, the familiarity morphing into the unknown that lay ahead of them.  Swimming with heaviness, their eyes questioned each other. 

She was the first one to speak, “We will find our way.”

Instead of words, Jon nodded and took a long drink of ale.  It was harsh against his tongue but he relished in the sting of it.   

“The night we were married… Ramsey, he-”

Such hardship had been hers, such agony. He couldn’t bear to hear it, “You don’t need to talk about it.”

The pads of his fingers rubbed her knuckles.  The blue of her eyes sparked at the contact, softened at his words.  “I’ve never spoken about it to anyone, except Bran.”

Jon eyes widened, and she continued.  “He already knew, really.  You remember how he was.”

“I do.”  He thought back again to the night he learned about his parents, aching for the loss of his brother anew.  “Nothing needs to be explained to me, unless you want to.”

She licked her lips, “I just don’t want you to be surprised by anything you see, now that my room is yours.”

Everything in him caught fire in an instant, her words cutting a deeper hatred inside of him, his skin flushed with its heat.  He hadn’t expected that so quickly.  “He’s gone now Sansa.  He can’t ever touch you again.”

Her head shook, “He may be dead but he remains. In my mind from time to time I remember, that night and every night after.  I can still feel it in my body.”  She paused, her tone returning flat.  “I remember when I see my body bare.  My face is the only part of my skin left wholly unscathed by his knives.”

The breath left him as he moved away from her, emotion so terrible it would shock Sansa to hear.  She believed him only capable of good, and yet she would run from his touch if she could see the malice that her words caused to move through him.  Staring at the fire, a vision of dragon flames burning their enemies fueled his already racing blood.      

Sansa turned away from her food, watching his back and his shoulders breathe, trying to reign in his heavy reaction.  All of her knew it was because the truth of what had happened to her was heinous and disturbing, but there was a small part that wondered if he too would be repulsed by the present state of her body.  She could hardly stand to stare at her own skin for very long.

“Jon?”

The uncertain quality of her voice called him back to her.  Standing before her he watched her eyes, blue and clear as the summer sky.

“You don’t have to give an account of your scars either.  You are not beholden to me.”

With a heavy sigh he let the fire out of his blood.  Coming to kneel before her, he wove his fingers into hers.  His looked at her, his brow coming down hard over her eyes.  He told his heart to see only a woman, and not focus on the knowledge of who she had always been.  “Your bravery challenges me.”

A small huff of air came out as the corners of her mouth twitched, “I haven’t fought any battles or won any wars Jon.”

“Courage is not exclusive to soldiers Sansa.”  He came up onto his knees and gripped her tighter, “We both have lived these past years reacting, with no control over what happened to us.  Our choices haven’t been perfect,” he winced thinking of Littlefinger and Daenerys.  “I know I fought it and it’s unconventional, but because of you we sit here finally in command of the future.”

The blush that covered her skin matched her hair.  She covered the fluttering in her chest with teasing, “I’m just happy you finally listened to me about something.”

The smile that made his eyes crinkle fell against his face, as natural as breathing.  They laughed, holding onto each other, the crackle of the fire mixing with the howling of the wind. 

Their eyes met again the sounds of their amusement fading.  His eyes locked with hers as Jon pulled in a deep gulp of air.  Now he must be brave as well, “Are you still hungry?” 

The irises of his eyes melted her heart.  It was like they’d been transported back to the Wall that day in the swirling snow.  He’d served her soup and they laughed about the old days.  His eyes had burned a hole in her that night, reminding her of the past and then death had rained down on them both, ripping them both in pieces.  And that’s where her fear came now, fast and unrelenting, even while his exaltations of her bravery were still ringing in her ears.  All she could muster was a small shake of her head.

He straightened his legs before her, “Then come here… my lady.”

Shaking she stood with him, never taking her blue eyes from his stormy ones.  To her surprise, he pulled the cloak off from around her shoulders and laid it over a trunk.  Reaching around him he untied his belt and laid it on her cloak. 

His hands reached out, taking her long slender fingers he laid them against his chest, “Help me?”

Her unsteady hands moved to untie the laces of his red Targaryen doublet. Faltering, she looked away from his eyes. 

For a brief moment he grasped her hands, sympathetic to her hesitation.  He opened his mouth to say something but no words could communicate what he was trying to accomplish.  When finally he did release her, his eyes looked down to where she touched him, then back to her face, encouraging her to finish.  The tremble of her fingers made the job take longer, but slowly she undid all the ties and helped him pull his arms free. 

In his shirt and breeches, Jon swallowed looking over her in the beautiful dress made by her hand. Turning her slowly, he unlaced her dress down the back.  As the dress slipped from her shoulders, it settled on the curve of her hips.  Taking a deep breath, he was careful and efficient, this act more intimate then he imagined.  She shook under his hands, the graze of his fingers or the brush of his arm, spiking a new kind of anxiety in her stomach.  When it was done, she stepped out of her dress, and turned toward him in her shift.

The pulse at the base of his neck trembled as he took a step back, running a hand over his mouth.  A large exhale of air escaped his lips, at the delicate warmth that filled her eyes.

He came forward his hands light at her waist, matching her courage with a new confidence. “I meant what I said Sansa.”  He kissed her gently on each hand, “There will always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

Leading her slowly they both paused standing in front of their bed.  Sansa blinked rapidly, the howling of the wind rushing in her ears. 

Jon spoke to her, “It would help if you tell me which side is yours.”

A lump formed in her throat once again thinking she was wholly unworthy of his care.  Unable to answer she moved toward the far side of the bed. 

The flickering of the fire was a comfort, the exhaustion of the day filling Sansa as she lay down.  Jon moved around the room, putting out the candles and plunging the room into a hazy darkness.  Crawling in beside her, he wrapped the heavy furs around them.   His hand trembled as he reached across the linen and found hers.

“Jon…” Her voice cracked.

“In time we will both know each other’s scars.”   He paused trying to identify the emotions raging inside of him, “And in _time_ there will be more Starks in Winterfell.”  

Relief moved through her at a fierce rate, his considerable goodness taking away the tremor that held her body captive.  Turning toward him she propped herself up to make out his features in the shadows of the fire.  His mouth twitched in a lopsided but somewhat sad smile, calling her fingertips to graze his cheek in delicate comfort. 

The newness of him under her hands made an unfamiliar feeling flutter inside her.  A strange sensation that curled around her middle and burned as his eyes subtlety changed.   Pulling a little closer, their feet touched under the heavy blankets.  Looking down over his body she let his protection move over her.  Here, in his bed she would never be hurt like she had before.  A soft smile settled on her mouth.

His own lips curled in sweet satisfaction, a consequence of holding to his promise, “You are happy this eve my lady?”  

Laying her head back against her pillows she closed her eyes.  “What have I not to find joy in my lord?  I’m finally home.”

 

Jon woke as the noise of the castle floated up to their chambers.  His body was slowly moving, its joints groaned, releasing the stiffness of sleep.  For a moment he felt empty, he turned to his right looking for Sansa.  Throughout the night, his body had found a new level of comfort next to hers.  Waking in the darkness of morning he had felt her against his back, and drifted again into the depths of a deep pleasant sleep.

“I’m here my lord.”  Her soft voice floated across the room.  “I was so hungry.”  She laughed lightly as she tore a piece of bread from the loaf.

Turning towards her, a rush of certainty disorientated him, warmth that collected in his chest and spread across his face.  The winter sun peaked through the open window, wrapping her in the flares of morning.  The white shift was covered with a thick robe, soft blue like a winter rose.  Her hair, loose from its braid, tousled in red waves down to the middle of her back and sense of clarity came over him.

He smiled, “Are you not cold?”

Looking over to the window she took another bite of bread, “Not.”

Slowly he got out of bed and came to her side, “We can’t take all our meals in here away from everyone’s eyes.”

Sansa looked up at him through slanted eyes, “Jon let us enjoy a few days before you begin your brooding.  The Lady of Winterfell wants to take breakfast in her room, and she will.”

He chuckled at her, “Alright _my lady_.”  He sat down looking over near the fire he spotted Ghost gnawing at something.  His eyes drifted back to Sansa, a shameless glint in her eye. “Did you two save anything for me?”

 

#

 

A rare opening in the clouds, allowed Winterfell a brief glimpse of winter’s sun.  It cast light across the ground, creating a jeweled field of snow.  The steps of the horses fell against the layers of winter as Sansa rode next to her husband.  Her eyes glanced over, falling against him.  _Husband._  

The word was strange when associated with Jon, but no less true.  He was indeed her husband and despite this unfamiliar word to describe him, he still was the same man she’d grown to know over these last tumultuous years. 

The woods were bright this morning as the snow continued to fall.  Sansa felt her furs fit snuggly around her as she relished in the cold.  Here amongst the trees of her home, the wolf inside her had the ability to be free. 

Jon had asked Sansa to ride this morning after a particularly long day with the people.  They had listened to concerns of many men, most seeking help for rebuilding their own houses and holdfasts.  Masons were scarce, but Sansa assured Jon that was the duty of Winterfell to offer their support, where and when they could. 

After, their interviews in the morning, they had been busy separately, Sansa tending to the troubles of some maids and he had spent the afternoon in the training yard.  She had come out and watched him ‘swing his sword’ as she liked to call it.  And most days she did come watch him train, speaking to the maester or the blacksmiths as they came to her with questions. 

Yesterday, as he had waved at her from below, the slump of her shoulders told him of her heavy burdens.  When she’d retired early after dinner, he’d meant to follow but gotten wrapped up again in more of the daily business of the castle.  She’d made herself so busy since the wedding that she’d neglected to care for herself.  He was determined to make time for her, forcing her to find some rest today. 

Now, as he looked over the color that lit her cheeks, he made a promise to himself to bring her with him more often.  The life that infused her eyes with the breath of winter filled him with the peace he’d been lacking.

Watching her he was direct with himself in the use of her title.  _Wife._   He said it over and over again, almost like a song, just as he had since their wedding a few moons prior.  _Wife_.  The chasm of a relationship shift still halted him at times but he felt no remorse for their swift decision.  The lords of the North had, though at first been shocked, rallied around them as the true heirs of Winterfell.  Sansa would not be shipped off to the south to make babies with a stranger, but could stay in the safety of these walls for the rest of her life.  That simple fact was enough to satisfy Jon for the remainder of his days.

Steering their horses to a nearby stream the pair dismounted and stood in the heavy snow.  Jon maneuvered expertly, breaking the ice allowing the animals a place drink.  Watching her horse Sansa smiled content. 

“The men that were here from Castle Cerwyn yesterday?  You never told me what they wanted.”

Jon rubbed the nose of his horse, not meeting her eyes. “They came to see if the marriage had continued as was told.  When Lady Jonelle was here she communicated her interest in making an alliance.”

“An alliance?”  Sansa looked at him strangely, “With you, a married man?”

He blushed, “That is what her men… communicated.”  Jon looked for signs of contempt but noticed nothing.  “Despite our efforts it seems that the North may know we are not fully wed.” 

The old Sansa might have laughed at such a ridiculous notion but now, in her heart, she felt sorrow for the last lady of a great Northern house.  Of course she would want someone like Jon.  “I suspect this was not the first proposal you have received besides mine?”

His eyes blinked at her, truly surprised.  “I didn’t know you were paying attention.”

“At first I knew your grief would make it easy to say no, but then the pressure came upon me and I grew uncomfortable with the thought, so I was determined to know of all the ravens.  I am just surprised it has continued even after our wedding.”

It didn’t sit right with him fully and he let her know in his expression.

She raised her shoulders, “I’m not sorry either.  Would you have not done the same for me?”

Conceding that point, he still didn’t feel at ease, “As you have said, you have learned a great deal of cunning from your time spent in the south.”

“That’s true, and Lord Baelish had many lesson for me as well.”

The bristle rose inside of Jon and he felt the bile in his throat, “I would never have his name on your lips again.”

“I’m sorry if I disappoint you.  I thought only of watching you leave me, and couldn’t bare it if she wasn’t worthy of you.”

His heavy sigh was swallowed up in the wind.  He came forward and stood next to her.  “What does this matter now that we are wed?  Brothers and fathers can come from all over the realm and send a thousand ravens but it will not pull me away from here.  Be assured of that.”  

Her eyes met his, “You have been loyal to me then?”

A hot rush fell over him, “Sansa…”

“I wouldn’t blame you-”

“I would never dishonor you.”  He cleared his throat, “We have secured our home, you are safe and I have been given a second life.  If I find myself unhappy, or wanton for flesh, I am a fool.”

Knowing the desires of all men, she stared hard at his heavy eyes.  Despite his hidden burdens, she knew Jon to be sincere, so she took him at his words.  Looking up, she felt the snow falling on her cheeks. 

“As a little girl all I could dream about was riding south and marrying a prince, or some high lord to tuck me away in his warm castle, far from the white emptiness of this place.  In my dreams he was Aemon, the dragonknight- and he would love me and I would give him sons…”

Sansa noticed how Jon reddened at her mention of children, “And all the years I was absent from this place I longed for it.  I don’t mind the snow, not now.”

His head tilted to the side a smile twitched on his lips, one that she alone can put there.  “Robb and I?  Do you remember when we used to play as knights?”

The mention of her brother made her breath hitch, a fact that he noticed immediately, “Does it bother you for me to speak of him?”

“Yes, but I want you to.  Who else but us will remember him?”

Nodding he continued, “Father had those wooden swords fashioned for us, before Ser Rodrik would allow us real weapons.  We would play for hours, chasing each other; bringing to life the stories we were taught.”

“What a happy memory that is- both of you, alive, together.  What made you think of it?”

His face blanched for a moment a spark coming to his eyes, “It must have been your mention of a knight.  We were always pretending to be knights and princes, victorious in battle.”

“He never did lose a battle…”  Her breath came out as an exhale as she stifled her cry. 

Jon made a movement toward her, “Sansa…”

The comfort of his voice chipped away the stone surrounding her heart, “It still is so painful to think of him or any of them.  It’s also unusual considering how things have changed for us.”

Jon’s voice was resolute.  “He was your brother as he was mine, and I don’t find that strange.  What legacy will we have to offer if we wipe them from our time together?” 

“And will it not complicate things?”

“I have never denied that, but I have made a promise to you and I will keep it.  And we cannot pretend that the past and they never were, can we?”

Sansa looked away from his stormy eyes and ran her finger over her horse’s mane.  “No we can’t.   That’s not what I want at all.” 

He came forward and touched her horse, following the same trail where her hand had been.  “We will press on Sansa.  I know it will get easier in time.”

She squared her shoulders, “You’re right, it will.  Duty just seems heavy this day.” 

He took a step forward and cupped her cheek gently, calling her eyes to his.  “Our duty is lighter when we trust each other.  Remember?” 

She nodded, comforted by his sweet touch and their shared memories.  “We should go back.  I have much to do today.”

“Not today, I have something else waiting for you.”

“A present?”

He shrugged, his mouth falling open into a smile. “Of sorts.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Love is not affectionate feeling, but a steady wish for the loved person's ultimate good as far as it can be obtained.”  
> ― C.S. Lewis


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The old feelings are fading, replaced with a newness that breathes a different kind of life into Jon and Sansa. The story of the Northern Wolf and the Hidden Dragon continues as a threat to their security lingers in the shadows, ready to steal away this small contentment they have found.

Lightness had settled between them, as they rode back toward Winterfell.  The castle was brimming with activity, the rhythmic pounding of the smiths blending in with the familiar bustle. 

They ate together in the Great Hall, a light lunch of meat and ale that still burned Sansa’s throat.  Jon laughed and reminded her how she had choked on the ale he’d offered her at Castle Black.  The pair was in agreement that the ale offered at Winterfell was the far superior choice. 

As they stood up from the table Jon offered her his arm.  Walking along the corridors they were greeted warmly by soldiers and other inhabitants that went about their daily tasks.  The brilliant sun had not yet been hidden by the winter clouds, so the hallways were bathed in light.  Jon shifted his body settling his furs, “You remember the ship that landed in White Harbor a few weeks back?”

She nodded, “An amazing step forward in beginning regular trade again.”

He steered her toward their solar, “I took a chance on something that was brought to one of the stalls down in winter town.”

Opening their door, Sansa stepped into the room first.  A few maids bustled about filling a large wooden tub with boiling water.  A small smile came to her face, she couldn’t help her teasing. “You bought me a bath?”

His lips curled upward, as he walked to his trunk and pulled out a small vile.  The maids, finishing their work, left, and Jon shut the door behind them.  Returning to Sansa he laid the bottle in her hands.  Pulling off her gloves, Sansa laid them aside and cradled the gift.

All at once he felt incredibly foolish, the small bottle looking insignificant in her exquisite hand.  “I didn’t know if it would suit you,” he stumbled over his words.  “They have retained a larger bottle for you, at the stall I found it, if you like it of course.”

The back of her throat burned, her heart brimming with emotion.  That a small thing could so strongly affect her left her momentarily without useful words, “What’s it scent?”

“Lavender.”

She pulled the cork from the top and put it up to her nose.  Her eyes closed at the sweetness of the oil.  “I haven’t had anything like this is many years.”

His voice was rough and tight, “Do you like it?”

“It’s perfect.”

Jon released a deep breath he didn’t realize he was holding.  “I should leave so you the water doesn’t grow to cold.”

Her face blushed, a small giggle floated from her lips, “You should.”

His shoulders straightened.  “I’ll be out in the yard.”

“Swinging your sword?”

He laughed as he walked toward the door, “Have some respect Sansa, its name is Longclaw.”

Standing outside the door he heard her laughing again.  Moving aside to let the maid back in, he turned away rubbing his hand over his beard.  The feeling of contentment settled against his chest once again. 

Walking out to the yard he looked up at the sky.  Though the sun was not bright, it was incessant; peeking through the clouds, on what had been the first sunny day since their wedding.  The shine brought him thoughts of Sansa, and the morning he’d woken up to find her wrapped in her robe, morning light bouncing off her hair.  

She was the dawn, bringing sun into his life after so many days of darkness. Jon shook himself, the thought warm and curious, stirring something buried inside of him. His eyes cast back toward the keep, remembering her smiles and her pleasure over the oil he’d found for her.

The Sansa she had been, in his memory, the girl he grew up with, was nearly gone from his mind.  The years of their childhood, his time at the wall, and the war felt like a strange dream he’d woken from, but could scarcely recall.  In its place was this new life, with a woman grown, capable and strong.  As he raised Longclaw and began his daily training, thoughts of that woman stayed with him, and he stored them in a secret place in his heart.  And it was not the excursion of the exercise that kept him warm in his leathers, but it was the thought of her, and her beautiful red hair, tumbling down her back.

#

A small sense of guilt entered Sansa’s heart as she asked the maids to bring up more warm water.  She shouldn’t be spending her day like this, but she also didn’t say no when they’d ask if she’d like more time. 

The oil Jon had given her had turned out exquisite.  The regular clove soap she’d been using was fine, but the oil left a pleasing aroma in her hair and on her skin.  In the time since the war she’d forgotten about such luxuries, she’d been too busy with the running and the function of her home.  She leaned back and let the water cover her body again. 

When the maid finally returned, Sansa’s hands and feet were wrinkled.  The fire was warm and blazed even as the foreign sunlight still glowed through the late afternoon.  Wrapped in her robe, she went to her dressing table and looked at herself in the glass.

She touched her cheeks, much like she remembered seeing her mother do when she was a little girl.  Taking her brush she combed through the red locks, allowing the excess water to fall against the stone like tears. 

Catelyn Stark’s face was still strong in Sansa’s mind, the twinkle in her eyes and her gracious tenacity.  Not for the first time she wondered what her mother would think of her position now, and the man who ruled Winterfell beside her.  The regrets of the past dug up ground inside of her, turning it over and over again, like a farmer ready for planting.  Suddenly, her body held a craving, an impossibly hopeless thought.  _Mother,_   _I wish you had been able to see who he really is._

 Looking back at the glass, Sansa hardly moved when her solar door opened. 

“Sansa?  I’m sorry- I…”

She turned to see his back, as he moved away from her, “I’m dressed Jon, no need to go running away this time.”

The first week of their marriage, there had been an extremely uncomfortable incident that involved a bath.  Without a thought, Sansa had ordered a tub one evening and was just finishing, standing up, letting her maid wrap her robe around her body. 

As had become his new habit, Jon had barreled through the door shortly after dinner.  His face at first serene, had flushed every color, purple to red and red to white.  For a brief confusing moment, she’d glimpsed his grey eyes turn black, looking more like Ghost when he used to go out for a hunt.  He’d assured her he had seen nothing, but it had changed things between them.

That night, and every night since, he had waited hours after dinner before returning to their room.  Most evenings she was tucked into bed before he would stumble around and dress himself for sleep.

“Are you sure?”

She let out a big sigh and stood up, “I was just about to get dressed so you are safe… for now.” 

He turned around, a breath of relief floating from his lips.  He took a step toward her, “How was it?”

The long sleeves of her robe covered her arm as she pulled her wrist up to her nose and inhaled.  “Wonderful.”   Her eyes smiled, holding her upturned hand out towards him, “Smell for yourself.”

And then for the first time, Jon’s body hesitated, calculating his response.  They were close, and their conversation littered with laughs and sweet smiles, but that was not abnormal.  She was standing, naked under the delicate fabric; hair leaving a trail of water behind her, but neither was that strange now that they were husband and wife.    

“Well?” She shook her wrist again. “Come here and see if you are pleased with what your money has bought.”

His throat was suddenly parched, and the air hummed with a strange light that he couldn’t quite see.  The noises of the room began to fade, the fire crackling and spitting, blending into the silent gray granite.  The world that he had known blurred into the hazy background of the past.   The nape of his neck, where his hair tickled his skin, grew warm, as his brain futilely ordered his feet to move. 

When he still didn’t move she came to him, “Did the master-at-arms hit you in the head?”

A huff of a breath came out as a half laugh, and his eyes flitted away.  Taking her outstretched hand he pulled her wrist up to his nose. 

The brush of skin on hers was light and quick, but it startled her, causing the breath to freeze in her lungs.  

Their eyes snapped together, and they both took a step away from the other.  Jon blushed crimson and she followed, swallowing before her voice whispered, “Do you like it?”

He nodded a vision of her in a dress, emblazoned with a wolf, filling his thoughts.  “You wear it well my lady.”

 

#

It was the first time that Sansa had ventured out beyond the walls alone since her marriage had taken place.  The late morning was cold, the sun hiding completely today, scattering the gray tone across the small rows of houses and wooden stalls once again. 

With the arrival of winter preceding the Great War, winter town had been full now for many years.  As the winter continued, the people stayed, filling space outside the gates of Winterfell with bustle and chatter.

Moments like these, with her furs wrapped around her and a basket in her hand, Sansa felt life beat in her breast, just like when she was a girl before she’d left for King’s Landing.  The guards that followed her today stunted it a bit, but she tried not to focus on their hands against their swords ready to strike.   

They were new, like many of the men she saw about the keep, two more southerners that had served beside them in the war.  Many soldiers had left the North, but returned shortly after, finding home forever changed and a strong connection and loyalty to Jon pulling them back.  Again it made her cling to this life she held now.  She briefly was visited by faces of the past but stored them away, this day too beautiful for her to mope in sadness. 

As morning disappeared and afternoon took its place, she continued her walk around the village.  She stopped by the stall Jon had directed her to, buying a larger vile of the oil he had picked out for her.  She’d asked him to come with her, this morning when she decided she was going.  His eyes had avoided hers as he’d mumbled excuses about paperwork and training.

Still, the people were friendly, and if anything their smiles distracted her from the tension that had fallen between her and Jon.   Speaking up and offering their support and congratulations on her marriage, Sansa was grateful for their support.  Some were less so, she could tell by the tone of their voices and the fear in their eyes.  And Sansa really couldn’t blame the people for their fears.  Dragons and fire had nearly destroyed the North during the war, and even though Sansa knew Jon to be a wolf, he was also a dragon.  The people understood he was not like Daenerys, power hungry and cruel, as he had proven again and again, at least once he’d recovered from his grief at the end of the fighting. 

And if he mourned still, it was in secret, tucked away and hidden from Sansa.  Since the night she’d come to him, offering marriage, he had not once mentioned his sadness over the loss of Daenerys.  Even in the library that day, when she had admitted the relief she’d felt upon the queen’s death, he had made no heartsick comment. 

The past doesn’t matter anymore, he had said.  And maybe he was right.  Maybe in time she would forget Joffrey and Cersei’s torment, and the torture she’d experienced with Ramsey.  And Jon would forget the strange relationship he’d had with the woman with silver hair and dragons. 

“My lady?” 

Sansa looked up and caught the eyes of a young woman holding a babe. 

“Could I disturb you my lady?”

She smiled at the woman and touched the child’s head, “You would not be disturbing me.”

“Do you remember me?  During the siege for the castle?”

She had no trouble placing the woman, though the lines of her face had grown harder since the years between them, she remembered the exact moment of their meeting.  Dead men and elephants, foreign swords and kidnappers were hard images to wipe away. Her mouth opened in a sad smile, “Yes Breyna?  Do I have it right?”

“You are ever so kind to remember me,” her face flushed as she patted the child’s back.  “Are you well my lady?  Safe and happy?”

“Of course, I’ve just been married as I’m sure you know.”

“Quite a stir it did create down here,” she nodded toward Sansa’s guards.  “And your lady knight?  The one who saved me, did she return home to her island?”

Such a pain sliced through Sansa that her poised features faltered for a moment, a steep drop in her voice.  “No my friend.  She died in King’s Landing during the war.”  She swallowed hard, “She was loyal and true… to the very end.”

“That makes me ever so sad.”  She looked around and called out to a small child that ran to her side, “Come here my girl.” 

The wee cherub ran up, bouncing blonde curls sailing behind her.  She stared at Sansa with bright blue eyes.  Looking over her face, the small features were mesmerized, “You have red hair like my sister.”    

Sansa knelt down, the snow crunching under her.  “And what’s your name little one?”

“Brienne,” the child smiled. 

Looking at the child, the Lady of Winterfell’s heart was awash in a strange mix of grief and gratefulness.  “And what a name it is…”  She took the little hands in her own, “I knew a woman called Brienne once.  She was a fierce warrior and a great friend.  Your mother has given you a gift with that name sweet one.  Wear it proudly.”

Sansa stood and smiled at Breyna, “A great honor that Lady Brienne deserved.  I thank you.”

The women shivered in her thin furs and looked back towards Sansa touching her child again, “Without Lady Brienne and you, Lady Sansa, I would not be alive to give life to my daughters, just like many others of us that day.  What other names would be fit for my children when you two were my saviors?”

Understanding her full meaning Sansa looked back to the infant, wrapped tight against her mother’s chest.  Pulling back the material slightly she saw the tufts of her red peaking from the cloth.

“As little Sansa grows, she too will hear stories about the woman she is named for.  And she in turn will tell her daughters of the great she wolf that saved the Northern people.” 

The emotion froze in Sansa’s throat; the pressure and responsibility of such words made swift doubts enter her heart.  She saw herself, far from perfect, but so very grateful for this woman’s kindness.

They spoke a little while longer, before the child at her feet complained of the cold.  The lady thanked them again for stopping her, and smiled and greeted others as she passed.  The encounter was short but had left its mark.  Her heart once again full of her internal promise to see the legacy of Winterfell and the Starks endure.  Not just for herself, but for those two little girls and the others like them that believed in her. 

As she turned to make her way back through the gates of her home, a deep longing fixed in her body.

 _Oh, father…_ She spoke to him from somewhere in her soul.  _I miss you terribly._

           

#

That evening Sansa sat sewing in their solar, the past few days weighing upon her.  The wind howled against the granite and the fire crackled its familiar tune.  The peace was settling as her hands fell into the easy rhythm of the stitch.  She tried not to, but she thought about Arya a heavy lump forming in her throat.  How her little sister had hated the needle.   

When the door opened moments later, Sansa looked up in surprise.  Since the awkward moment the first week of their marriage, Jon’s presence was rare in their solar.  The gift had soothed some of that tension, and their morning ride and conversation had alleviated all of her foolish worries. And yet, his shoulders had still remained rigid, his face stoic and far away.

“You are early this evening.”  She looked over at her husband who slumped in a chair.  His black leather jerkin mud splattered, his hair falling loose from its knot.  “Are you alright?”

His eyes vaguely looked up into hers and didn’t respond.  She put aside her sewing.  “Jon?”

“Do you sing anymore Sansa?”

The question struck her, thoughts of Arya still lingering on the edges of her mind and she clasped her hands in her lap. 

“I remember you used to sing.”

“Not for long time.”

His eyes were heavy; he waited a beat, “Would you sing again?”

“Now?”

Jon made no verbal answer but stared back at her with mysterious eyes.  Sansa felt him reach out towards her, his soul searching, hungry, clear by the ache she read in his eyes. Desperate to calm his obvious anxiousness she took a deep breath.  “I could try.”

It was several moments before she worked up enough courage.  Taking a deep breath she let the words escape as if it hadn’t been years since they’d met her tongue:

“Gentle mother, font of mercy,

Save our sons from war, we pray.

Stay the swords and stay the arrows,

Let them know a better day…”

The sweetness of her voice moved straight to Jon’s heart.  His eyes closed as he listened to her melody fill the room.  Her shyness was equally as sweet, if not sweeter than her tone.  It was pure and whole and real, quenching some thirst inside of him. 

He opened his eyes, “Why did you choose that song?”

She shook her head, tears close to the surface. “It was the last time I remembering singing.  During the Battle of Blackwater, I sang to the Hound…”   Her sister floated through her thoughts again tugging on her heart.

“Why did you want me to sing?”

Standing he came toward her.  Watching his dark eyes, her hands balled into fists.  He paused, “Are you frightened of me?”

It was foolish, but he was slowly perforating the shield of protection that she’d so carefully constructed around herself.  Still, this was Jon.  Her eyes soaked him in as he stood before her.  _I’ll protect you I promise…_

His voice floated through her head and her words came out hushed but sincere.  “Not you exactly.”

Crouching down in front of her he chose to let her comment fade. He turned slightly away and cast his eyes back up.  “I like to hear you sing.”

“I never knew you paid any attention to me.”

She could almost see his lopsided grin, but his back was to her.  “No Sansa, you never paid any attention to me.”

Swallowing she acknowledged the truth in those words.  After some moments her voice drifted out, mixing with the wind that still protested outside:

Gentle mother, strength of women,

Help our daughters through this fray.

Soothe the wrath and tame the fury,

Teach us all a kinder way…

As her voice continued Jon found his heart filling strangely, aching for more.  Gently, he leaned back toward her, resting his torso against her knees.  Perhaps the old Sansa would protest, his muddy form soiling her dress, but this version of the girl he’d known so long ago was vastly different. 

He did remember when she used to sing.  Septa Mordane would praise her so highly and he remembered how Arya would fume over the exaltation.  Though, at the time he didn’t realize how much the sweetness of her song would be missed.  Many moments during his time at the wall, when thoughts of his family would be painful, he would miss even Sansa, and he’d find himself thinking of her song. 

Gently, his head fell back and to his pleasure she took it in her soft hands.  The words of her song continued as with skillful touch, she pulled his hair fully free of its knot, letting it fall into her fingers. 

The catch in her voice, made his eyes float up into hers.  _Wife._   His core called out to hers, and did not look away.  Tonight he’d been out on the battlements, staring up at the blackened sky, his heart raw with the memory of them, up there, together, and the days that had followed. Her warmth had been the only thing tethering him to the earth, to the North, making him belong like never before.  The sweet agony that filled him upon the realization was a heady drug, working its way into his being, creating a chasm inside of him that required only her. 

And now he was here, his hair mingled with her fingers, pressed up against her legs, staring at her, well aware that she was confused by his actions. 

But to his wonder, her pink lips turned up into the softest of smiles.  The sea of her eyes sparkled a bit brighter as her song carried over him, undeterred by his conduct.  

“Gentle mother, font of mercy,

Save our sons from war, we pray.

Stay the swords and stay the arrows,

Let them know a better day…”

As the song ended, an atmosphere of unity settled over them.  The fire continued its dance, casting familiar shadows across the room.  Sansa’s fingers continued their menstruations of his hair, a gentle caress of his scalp. “Why did you want me to sing Jon, truly?”

Looking away, more of his weight pressed upon her palms. He tried to answer the question as honestly as he dared. “I was thinking of the past.  I hold a few sweet memories, and your singing is one of them.”

This seemed to please her and she smiled.  “You are rather dirty.”  She laughed, “And your hair could use a scrub.”

A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest as he sat up and pulled himself around to face her.  “Should I order a tub this eve?”

“Nah ser it is too late for that, but tomorrow surely.  I’ll make sure not to disturb you.” 

They laughed together and Sansa fiddled with the cord that had held his hair.  Her hand reached out toward him, holding it for him.  “I don’t remember the last time I saw your hair free from its band.  You should wear it so more often.”

Her simple observation, mixing with his earlier thoughts caused red to seep across his cheeks.  As he grasped the small piece of leather he stood, his fingers brushing hers. 

Eyes of ice, met his of fire and they shifted, something more opening between them.  Jon stood, retaining her hand he bent over it, and laid his lips against her skin.  “I thank you for the song my lady.”

A burning sensation traveled from the grip of his fingers down into her heart.  Sansa’s eyes blushed at him.  “Your manners are different than I remember.”

He laughed at her observation.  “I would hope so.”  Coming to sit beside her he looked at her sewing.  “Are you going to finish that tonight?”

The broadness of his body leaned into hers, and she looked down fiddling with her fingers remembering his hair.  “Will you sit with me while I do?”

Eyes of soft blue, lips of summer flowers swept through him as he settled back against his chair, “Only if you sing me another song.”

#

After that Jon came early to their solar every evening.  It felt much like before he left for Dragonstone, when he would sit with her and watch her sew.  Sometimes they would laugh and share stories from their childhood, or sometimes they would sit and listen to the howling of the wind or the pelting snow on granite walls of the Great Keep.  

Life at Winterfell had fallen back into a sweet comfort for Jon, cautious but eager in his newness towards Sansa.  Occasionally his heart would pain when he would think about Dany and the choices he’d made.  Remembering her dragons and a family unknown to him, the shame of his secrets, and the pull of emptiness would fall heavy on his shoulders.  If he focused too long on being the last Targaryen he would feel his chest tighten and he would ask Sansa to sing. 

And with time, singing came more naturally to her, as if that piece of her was reborn.  The mood in her heart was lighter and more apt to sense his mood.  When he stood and began to pace, his fingers would rub the sliver scar along his eye, and she would call his name. 

Eventually her soft tune would bring him back to her, out of the darkness of his memories.  Sometimes it made a strange twinge form in her chest, wondering if he was imagining a different life, with a different woman.  She’d asked him about her once, and he had turned pale before assuring her that he didn’t grieve like she believed.  Instead of being sad or dwelling on whatever hidden struggle he had, she made more of an effort to learn him, be devoted to him as she imagined her mother had been to her father. 

It wasn’t easy always, she wasn’t in love with Jon- but neither had her mother loved her father when she’d come to Winterfell.  And Jon was difficult sometimes and broody always, but when it had flustered her before the war, she now found it endearing, allowing a new tenderness for him to open up in heart. 

So for the first time since their wedding, when he stood and offered to help her ready for bed, she didn’t shake as she had before.  It was still awkward and slightly uncomfortable, but she continued each night, forging ahead remembering her vow. 

One night, when her hands found their way about his chest, unfastening his jerkin, his eyes moved down the length of her body and back, his tongue wetted his lips. 

The sensation was different, the grip of his hands a bit tighter on her hips.  Her eyes fluttered as a sigh escaped her lips.  And when his mouth twitched into a new smile, she let her hand wander up his chest, causing a tumult to stir within her breast.  

When she entered their bed, he sat up hovering slightly over her.  Without offering any words, or explanation, he opened his arms, and pulled her into his body. 

Each night, cradled in the circle of his strength, her back against his chest, she found his fingers.  It was dim, but she took her time memorizing the feel of his strong and weathered hands.  Slowly, she traced the lines of his palms, thinking about the dragon princes from the stories of her childhood. 

In the darkness the crackle of the fire was drown out by the winds of winter.  And then one night as she was lying awake, she felt him press against her as he whispered into her hair. “Sansa…”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There is only one god, and His name is Death. And there is only one thing we say to Death: 'not today'." -Syrio Forel, A Game of Thrones

The moons marked the passage of time in the winter sky, waxing and waning as life continued, the bustle and lull a steady pattern of predictability. The rumors that the Lord and Lady of Winterfell were not truly married persisted, but neither paid any attention to such whispers.  Still, Sansa was mindful of the people’s need for reassurance and made every attempt to be out among them, caring for them and helping them to rebuild the North.  And Jon was watchful as well, offering his leadership expertise as he forged ahead in this new life that was being written. 

As certain as the flow of daily life was, their evenings together continued as well, the level of comfort between them deepening.  And sometimes, beneath the cover of darkness, he would wrap his wife in his arms, a growing curiosity opening in his heart.  She too had embraced the change, the unexpected shift as easy as it was perplexing.   

Early in the evening, fire crackled in the hearth as Sansa laid the missive down on the table between them. The outside world had yet to infiltrate their small kingdom of peace they’d built at Winterfell, but now Sansa stared at the raven scroll, loathed to discuss its details.

A chill sparked deep within her breast.  Moving closer to the flame, she hoped to squelch it by the fire.  “When must you leave?”

Following his wife he stood by her side, “I cannot possibly until the storm passes.  If the maester is right it will be more than a sennight from now.”

“Or you could send a loyal man in your stead.  There are many who are wholly devoted to you and would gladly go.”

“Sansa…”

Turning toward him she nodded, hearing his lordly censure. “I know Jon, but the idea of you leaving Winterfell does not appeal to me.  I remember too clearly what happened the last time you left.”  

They both shared a look but he said nothing and she let her comment fade.  “I’m not sure this new government is much different than before.”

“What do you mean?  Representatives, from each of the kingdoms, that make decisions for the realm, it’s much different than one man ruling on his whims.”

Her blue eyes sparked, “You were a king.”

“Winterfell never truly belonged to me, I am not a Stark.”

The rise and fall of her chest stuttered unevenly, “And yet those old northern fools chose you to rule before me.”

He looked over at her knowing she wasn’t finished, “And?”

“You by birthright are their king- and yet now they sit as your equals.  She added for emphasis, “Westeros belongs to you.”

“And what kind of king would I have been?”

Stepping toward the fire she looked away from him, “If you did rule than no council of men thousands of miles away could order you away from me.”

The warmth of her words flushed over him as he turned her shoulders back toward him.  “And they would let me rule from this seat?”  He raised his eyebrows doubtfully, “I don’t want to rule with a name given to me by a father I never knew and besides, I don’t want to live in the south anymore than you.”

The winds blew, howling in protest against the keep.  He tried to catch her eye. “You know I must go.  It is my duty to our people to put to rest disputes and rebellions, no matter how small.  I will do my part to keep the North safe from any threat.”

Looking down she interlaced her fingers with his,“And it will be dangerous.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “There is always that chance.”

Still she didn’t look at him, “You will be careful won’t you?”

“Sansa…”  In an instant her sapphire eyes pulled themselves into his.  The fresh sheen of tears touched their corners. 

“Promise me?”

Reaching up he cradled her pink cheek in his hands.  “Do you fear so much for me?”

“You are my family Jon.  When my family rides away from me, in my experience, they don’t return.”

Long moments passed between them, the past though hazy was always there.  He thought about Sansa as she had been as a girl, imprisoned by the Lannisters who had murdered their family.  Alone and scared she had rallied only to be sold into another kind of prison as the wife of a sadistic man.  His thumb grazed her cheek as he watched the strength mix with the fear, her plea pouring through him like a honeyed wine.  That remembered need to keep her safe filled his chest, and lured him under.  Limbs aching in response, he pulled her against him. 

With his arms around her, Sansa nudged her nose into the hollow of his neck.  Breathing in she whispered against him, “We are two parts of Winterfell Jon.  Before you do anything foolish, remember what we have set out to do.”

An unbidden rush came over him, pulling heat through his body.  His hands drifted down her back and fixed on her waist.  Shutting his eyes, he caught a whiff of lavender.  The scent made him shiver, the pleasure of the memory propelling him deeper toward her.  His nose grazed her cheek as their foreheads came together.  In the silence of their solar, his lips slipped against hers.

A sharp gasp echoed from her throat between their connected bodies.  Beyond the surprise there was a soft kinship, their devotion for each other forged in the snow between Castle Black and Winterfell all those years ago when they’d fought for the North. And yet…

Under the blanket of their past was a gentle stirring, a unique awareness that was solely theirs.  Sansa felt her stomach spark, a small flicker of life still present.  The feeling of him didn't scare her, but awoke something long buried in her heart.

And in a physical sense, her lips were warm and soft; matching the summer flowers he often compared them too.  The ache that spread across his body was so unexpected that he pressed further in, his mouth opening slightly.  A low groan rumbled in his chest as he felt the quick taste of flesh.

She could feel the newness of his body moving, his lips gentle, exploring her with hands that crept up her waist.  When his mouth opened, a sudden thrill erupted under her skin, pulling her back. 

When their connection broke Jon sucked in, losing his breath at the awareness in his blood.  His eyes were round; his heart expanded, pulsating a new rhythm. There were simply no words to say.

The cadence of their shoulders continued in unison for the span of several seconds.  Her hair fell, covering her downturned features.  His hand came up and pushed it back behind her shoulders, calling her eyes back to his. 

“I have thought many times during the night about turning in your arms, wondering if you would accept me.”

Deep in the space between them, that part of themselves that had been reserved for the other, swelled, and he could feel her response in every cell of his body.  It called to him, reassured him and it made him want to pull her close again.  Rough, candid words were whispered in his emotion. “I haven’t forgotten my promise Sansa.”

Not understanding why, she saw them standing on the battlements of Winterfell out in the swirling snow.  He was about to be named king and she had been at his side, a strange twist of fate that had mirrored her septa’s promise. 

Oh, how she had cherished those first days back home. Challenging each other and arguing and coming together as a family for the very first time.  They had grieved and grown, learning how to rule beside each other.  In her heart she wished he had never left, and had never belonged to anyone else.

The voice that answered him was braver than she felt, the realizations bringing up images of a past. “Don’t give pieces of yourself away this time Jon.  When you return, come back to me whole.”

He didn’t take his hands from her, understanding the exact meaning of her words. “I will Sansa.  I will.”

#

Nothing was comforting in her empty bed.  Despite being layered in heavy furs, Sansa felt frozen against the sheets.  Sitting up, she looked toward the empty chair that lay against the wall on the side of her bed.  Remembering waking up from her sickness, his dark eyes saturating her with his care, a painful barb laced her heart. 

Throwing off the covers, she stood and pulled a heavy robe and fur around herself.  She pushed her feet into slippers and went to Ghost who slept against the rug.  His red eyes reflected what she interpreted to be sadness.

“I know,” she felt foolish as the heated tears filled her eyes.  “I miss him too.”

Ruffling his fur again she made a move toward the door.  The white beast looked up and she smiled, “Oh, alright. To me Ghost.”

Lady and wolf made their way out of their chambers and down the hall.  Upon arriving at her desired destination, Ghost raised his claw and scratched the door.  A terrible lump formed in Sansa throat that went beyond the yearning for Jon’s presence.   She mourned for a time that no longer existed, and people that had been turned to ashes. 

The door wasn’t locked so Sansa pushed her way in, the wolf at her heels.  Standing in the entryway, she watched the animal make his way around the room, familiar with his whereabouts.  She noted how he sniffed the bed, the hearth and the rug and then turned confused eyes back to her. 

Coming into the room, Sansa sank to the floor.  “She’s dead.  Just like the rest of them.”

A surge of hot emotion boiled into Sansa.  Her little sister had been so headstrong and sure of herself.  Jon had ordered Arya not to enter the battle fray and when that failed, Sansa had gripped her hand, pleading with her. 

Oh, how Arya had just smiled, that small smirk that began at the corner of her mouth and spread across her face. 

She had looked between Sansa and Jon and shook her head, “We say ‘not today’ Lady Stark.  Not today.”

Gendry had said he had seen it happen, but then became unsure of the details, his emotion skewing his memory.  The battle had gone so quickly the Golden Company coming at Winterfell then the dead that had swept over them. 

Sansa shuddered, remembering the shriek of the dragons and the fire that had burned both the living and the dead. 

“Arya,” Sansa whispered into the cold room.  “The pack survived little sister.  The wolves have defeated the lion and the monsters are gone.”  The lonely tears seeped from her eyes, acquainting the stone with her sadness.

“Lady Stark?”

Sansa turned toward the deep voice, “Who goes there?” 

“It is Ser Selle my lady, of your guard.  I was just walking the halls and I heard you talking.  Are you alone in here?”

Standing, Sansa looked into the face of the knight, “Ser?”

“Forgive me,” he came into the doorway.  “After the war, I returned to North rather than staying home.  I’ve been serving your brother every since.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, Ghost coming to her heels.  Surprisingly, the direwolf didn’t growl but tilted his head to the side assessing the stranger. 

“Jon is not my brother ser as I am sure you are aware.”  Her shoulders set her hands clasped in front of her waist. 

He nodded his head, “Forgive me, I sometimes forget.”

She narrowed her eyes, and placed her hand atop Ghost’s head.  “He would not want you to forget.”

The man raised his eyebrows and looked around the room.  “This was Lady Arya’s room was it not?”

The desperate loneliness curled in Sansa’s stomach, allowing his soft words to crack her defenses.  “Do you remember her?”

“Feisty little thing about this high,” he indicated with his hand.  “Held that little sword…” He searched for the word.

“Needle,” she finished for him her eyes drifting again the room so full of memory her limbs ached.  Her voice hardened, “She was fierce and she was brave.”

His brows knitted together, “Are you angry?”

A deep breath left Sansa, casting wary eyes at the knight, “Who are you that I should answer your questions?  Forgive me but I don’t know you.”

“But I know you and I serve your family, I serve you.  Perhaps I am bold but in my experiences a lady does not wander in cold rooms at night if all is right in her heart.  I merely want to make sure you are well?”

His eyes were kind and Sansa rubbed her brow.  “I miss my husband.”

The knight’s shoulders ruffled a grumble came from his lips.  Sansa didn’t miss his demeanor. “Does that make you uncomfortable Ser Selle?  That I married my cousin?”

“I thought you were to marry the Baratheon bastard.”

“He never truly wanted me.”

“Are you sure about that?  I hope it doesn’t offend me to say but you are a rare beauty.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, the cold of the room seeping through her many layers. “I am not offended but left unmoved.  My face is nothing to me now…  Lord Baratheon would have married me out of devotion to my sister, but that is all.”  Sansa smiled, “He truly loved her, just like they sing about in the songs." 

The man raised his eyebrows, “Are you sure that’s not your fate my lady?”

Jon’s face floated through her mind, how his soft lips had moved so sweetly over hers. His arms wrapped around her at night as they lay together in their bed, filled her with a sense of hope at the ease of such intimacy. At first, she had only longed for an heir, but he had pricked the dead places inside of her, breathing life into her once fanciful heart. When she thought about his long looks out the window and the secrets locked away in his quiet moods, she would shake away all of her foolish thoughts. Their care for each other was sincere, this she had no doubts about. Maybe that wasn’t worthy of a song, but it was enough for her.  

“That is not my fate ser.”

She looked at him unable to understand why she kept talking, “And you?  What is your story?”

“It’s simple really.  I came to the North to fight besides the living.  I left and returned south and nothing was like I remember.  My family is gone and I have no more lord to serve so I came back to serve at Winterfell.”

“Who was your lord, before the war?”

“I was a knight from the Riverlands.”

Her head tilted to the side, seeing him clearly.  “You will not tell me and do not blame you.”  She looked around the room, “Sometimes it is easier not to speak of the dead.  When you don’t, you can pretend they are still out there and will one day return home.”

“It’s late my lady,” the knight looked away.  He motioned with his arm, “This room is too cold for you and full of sadness.  You need to get your body warm and your head away from these memories.”

She looked at him strangely, “Are you affected by my sadness?”

“My concern is for your health and happiness, as is correct in my my position.  And I would see your family restored for the sake of your forebears.”

“You knew my father?”

There was no mistaking the waver in his voice, “And your mother.”

A lightness touched Sansa’s heart, feeling her father’s words in her blood.  “I thank you for your loyalty ser.”  She pulled the fur tighter around herself.  “But you are right.  This room holds nothing for me now.”

The man nodded and led the way out of the room. Taking one last look around her, Sansa pulled strength from the memory of her sister. She had observed Arya’s abilities, her faces and her swiftness, but it was her ferocity that caused her lips to curve in a determined smile. 

She would not crumble under the weight of her sadness. “Not today, little sister,” she whispered to the empty room. “Not today.” .

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon returns to Winterfell once again heavily burdened by his choices and secrets of the past. Will Sansa's song and quiet confidence be enough to persuade him that their time has finally come? Or will his fears stop him from grasping hold of the future she is offering?

**__**Jon looked up at the darkened battlements of Winterfell as the gatehouse rose before him.  His men rallied around him as their horses crossed the threshold and he could finally breathe the sweet winter air of home.  Five moons had passed since he’d left through these gates.  Never had he imagined he would have been gone this long from the North, from Winterfell, from Sansa.

What had started as a few squabbling houses vying for control of The Twins, had led further south toward the ruin of Harrenhaul.  After assisting the lords of the Riverlands it had been Jon’s intention to return north with his men, but the party had been pulled further south, a meeting of the ruling lords called to King’s Landing.   

It had been foolish to push the party to try to make it home tonight.  The hour was late, closer to morning, and no raven had preceded them.  As soon as they’d traveled close enough, he gave the command to continue, unable to resist the pull toward home.  Jumping off his horse he let the reigns fall into the hands of a nearby squire.  His eyes traveled up the length of the Great Keep.  Behind those gray granite walls lay his beautiful red haired wife…

In the months of his absence she’d communicated as frequently as she could.  Keeping him up to date on the management from home, he shared as much as he dared about his attempts at keeping the peace in the realm.  Things were difficult in the south; too many changes too quickly had left the government shaky and unreliable.  The people, before so eager for a broken wheel, seemed to be crying out for the old ways.  They weren’t perfect, but they were known and comfortable- this new way of living was not popular. 

There were discussions among the leaders of each kingdom what to be done about the chaos in some parts of the continent.  Foreign invaders still landed on the shores, hopeful to capitalize on the weakened state of Westeros. 

The Riverlands and the West believed to be united there must be a king, sitting atop the iron throne.  Then, they argued, conquerors would be less tempted to enter, knowing the seven kingdoms were once again united.  Others, including Jon, were staunch in their belief that if the council remained unified, no king was necessary.    

His time spent in King’s Landing had been difficult for him, not just because of the unrest in the leadership of Westeros.  Visions of the last time he’d been there had been lurking, waiting for him as soon as he’d ridden through the Dragon’s Gate. 

Memories of Sansa’s tortured cries met his ears as he pictured her the day he’d arrived on Cersei’s bidding.  He had negotiated and made promises that day and broken other promises, cementing the fate of one to secure the other.  The game he had played made him weary in his very bones.   

At the time, he thought it had very little to do with Sansa and yet in the end, it had everything to do with her.  Jon had committed himself to the Dragon Queen when he still believed Sansa to be his sister.  It was the most selfish he’d ever been, only thinking about the survival of the realm, and utterly careless with his family’s lives.  Because of his choices, she had bled alongside of him.

With silver hair and red hair visiting him at night, mixing with blood and the memory of screams, it was uncomfortable for him to send ravens to Winterfell.  The guilt of his secrets made him feel unworthy of his vows, despite the facts.

The external and internal forces warred around him, causing his feelings to be more vivid, or disturbing depending on the perspective.  He had taken great care in his communication with her, not wanting to burden her with the truth. 

Even as he had such a thought he mocked himself.  It was true that Sansa was delicate and beautiful, a true lady of the North.  Perhaps she didn’t ride dragons or conquer continents but she had grown into a wolf, steely and brave.  After all the things she’d survived, Baelish, Bolton, and Cersei, a shaky government would not sway her inner fortitude. 

Turning toward the warmth of the keep, the bright red flame flung herself into Jon’s arms.  The cold that clung to his clothes forgotten as her touch brought the heat back into his body.  It should not be this way; the fleeting thought came and went.  Wasn’t he the son of fire?  His furs encircled her as she whispered against him, “Welcome home.”

#

Pulling the door closed in their solar Jon shook the snow off his cloak.  Sansa helped him remove his outer clothing and moved to stoke the fire.  Following her he took off his belt and jerkin, and laid his gloves aside.  Warming his hands by the fire, he watched her shift the logs in the flames. 

The green dress fixed to her elegant shape, moving in unison with her body’s motion.  She held herself steadily, sparking the fire with skillful hands.  The shadows danced in her eyes, her face composed as always.   A sweet pink of a faraway sunset bloomed on her cheeks, her lips set in a serene smile.

The warmth traveled over him again and he reached out for her hands.  Taking the poker from her, he laid it against the hearth.  Remembering the kiss he’d given her he stared at the sky that was her eyes.  The sunset on her cheeks, flamed red, as her lashes fluttered.

“Sansa,” the rough fingers of a soldier gripped her delicate hands.  Hot tears came suddenly to her eyes overwhelmed by his presence. 

Jon’s brow furrowed, “Are you well?”  

Sansa let her breath out slowly, “When you told me you were going south, I almost got on my horse to drag you home.”

He touched the ends of her unbridled hair; his eyes looked away from her. “Did you doubt me?”

“I never doubted you, only the treacherous place that has taken too much from me.”

He nodded understanding the truth in which she spoke.  The ache of his nightmares in King’s Landing resurfaced, but he pushed them away for now.  Looking at his wife, her name swelled in his chest, his promises turning over and over in his mind.  “Rest from your fears my lady; it will not take me as well.”

#

Leading the hunt was something Jon looked forward to as the days of winter continued, ceaseless in their charge.  The cold feeling on his face, his steady mount under him and Ghost waiting for him as the gates were opened for lord’s return.

The astonishment of his position would still, at times, rake over him anew.  After his vows to the watch, in what was another lifetime, he never thought about calling this priceless pile of gray granite his home ever again.  And miraculously, here he sat, staring at the Great Keep with his reborn eyes, a son of ice and fire. 

On the days when his lordship over Winterfell would sadden him he would share his pain with his wife.  Sansa, in her quiet wisdom would agree; their losses had been great.  However, she would always try to mold their sorrow into something productive, which while not healing the ache, was like a slave to cool its temperature.  Jon found himself relying more and more on her ability to help him cope with his life, one that he’d never intending on leading.

As the winter wind whipped his furs around him Jon dismounted and handed off his reins.  He shook the snowflakes from his shoulders and felt the rush of warmth upon entering the keep.  The maesters, huddled near the entrance seemed to be waiting on him.  They whispered lightly to each other and Wolkan moved away approaching his lordship.

“My lord I wonder if I might have a moment of your time?”

Jon nodded, “Of course- I was just headed to change this wet clothes.”

The men retreated to Jon’s empty chambers.  The fire was warm as he threw off his heavy fur and Wolkan closed the door behind them. 

Jon began the task of undressing, “No news from the South I hope?”

“No,” Wolkan relieved Jon with his words.  “The South remains silent.”

Jon raised his eyebrows waiting for the man to continue.  The maester hesitated clearly struggling with his words.

“Just spit it out man.”

“Forgive me my lord but it has been nearly ten moons since your wedding.  And Maester Henley and I had thought that we would know if the fever had truly destroyed Lady Stark’s ability to produce an heir.”

From his dark curls to his freshly shoeless feet, Jon felt he turned the color of his wife’s hair.  He stood abruptly.  “That’s not your concern.”

“I know this new role is not what you were trained for my lord, and I mean that with no disrespect but in truth.  We both know you need an heir, and despite you and Lady Sansa’s past, it would make securing the North, for longer than your lifetime a real possibility.”

“Maesters are trained to help the ladies of their house-

Jon interrupted him, “Are you aware of the trauma Lady Sansa has lived through?”

His head looked away, red faced and tense.  “I can remember my lord.”

“And yet you only know part of it.  There are things that happened during her time at King’s Landing that would make you rethink your words.  And you are heartless if you think I would ever push myself against her just for the sake of a babe.  I was raised beside her, and I won’t traumatize her further.” Jon saw he wasn’t backing down, “You have more to say?”

“My lord, it has been years since Ramsey and your Dragon Queen.  I wonder if you are too familiar.  What if you wait and learn she cannot bear you a child?  If your marriage has not been consummated there is still a chance for annul-

“Out.” Jon was surprised at the boom of his own voice.  “Leave and never speak these words aloud again.  Not to me, not to the other maesters and never to my wife.  Do you understand me?”

Wolkan nodded, “I am only trying to help.”

Jon shook his head, “This is not the way.”

The older man left shutting the door and leaving Jon alone, nearly changed but freshly aflame.  Had they really been husband and wife for the span of that many months?  The time had fluttered quickly into a comfortable rhythm that he’d begun to love.  Was it time to broach the subject of children with her?

Before he’d left for the Twins he’d kissed her.  What had started out as a way to ease her fear had morphed into something surprisingly sweet.  There had been no shudder, or repulsion upon his attraction to her.  Still she was tortured, soft under his hands, but still very hesitant to his touch.

 _She the daughter of ice and he the son of fire._ He ran his fingers through his hair.  Despite Sansa’s declaration before their vows it did sound like a song; a minstrel that might be written about a soldier and his lady.  He smiled in spite of the seriousness of these next choices.   If he was to garner pleasure from music that would be a tune he’d like to hear.

#

The squeal of the pigs could be heard throughout the yard.  Jon threw his sword down ferociously distracted.

“I can’t possible concentrate with all that screeching.”

The master of arms, a cousin of House Reed picked up his lord’s sword.  “It is better to go see what all the noise is about your grace.  I fear the mother is having a hard time given birth to her piglets.”

“I am not a king, Kiran.  I’m not even a Stark.”

“You are my king; I swear it by ice and fire.”

Jon sighed having heard his oath many times over.  “I will go and check on the animals now.  Tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here your grace.”  He dipped his hand and went about the yard, clearing it for the day. 

Jon quickened his steps across the keep towards where the screeching was getting louder.  Surprised as he rounded the corner to the stalls to find his wife, muddy and red faced struggling with a pig, half birthed. 

“Sansa?”

Her blue eyes looked up, “Don’t just stand there help us!”

Coming along beside her Jon put his hands on the animal, “I expect later you will tell me how the lady of this house now assists in the birthing of our animals.”

“I promise you I will.  That is if I can still stand when the task is complete.”  He let out an exhale of air, steadying himself beside her.   

With a few more final tugs and unearthly squeals from the poor animal, the last of the seven piglets was brought into the world.  The servants moved around their lord and lady and cleaned off the animals.  Jon helped Sansa to her feet. 

Coming forward he took a clean linen and began to wipe her face.  She protested his treatment of her staying his hands, “I can clean myself thank you.”

Releasing the cloth he stared at her aghast.  The humor of his expression, made her smirk. “Your stare is starting to frighten me.”

Hands crossed over his chest, his head tilted to the side, “You’ve done this before?”

“Of course I have.  During the war and after the war, I had to learn many new skills.” 

He coughed, “Skills?”

Looking directly at him, she smiled gently, “I find bringing life into the world very fulfilling.”

He blanched, clearing his throat, “How has this never come up before?”

Wiping off her hands she took the linen next to the mud on her dress.  “Do you disapprove of me?”

There was no hesitation from him. “I admire your attention to all things concerning our home.  I am only surprised- nay, shocked to see it has extended to the birth of such creatures.”

Coming forward she laid her hand lightly against his arm and leaned forward to his ear.  “I have also found myself picking eggs from the chickens once or twice a week.”

He found her teasing enjoyable, so he played along. “Scandalous.”

“Yes- what would people say of Lady Sansa now?  At the birth of pigs and picking her own breakfast?”

His head tilted in laughter, enjoying the lightness between them.  He put his hands under her elbows and met her eyes.  “You will promise to not tire yourself out?  I find no fault in your caring for these creatures but last night we were up very late and I would like you to keep your health.”

“Oh forgive me m’lord…” A young squire blushed crimson on hearing his lords’ whispers to his wife.  “Your sword.” 

Jon took Longclaw from the boy’s hand cleared his throat as he tightened his belt about his waist.  The poor boy didn’t know that Sansa had been up late sewing with Jon by her side.  He tried to ignore the beautiful blush that his misunderstanding had lit on Sansa’s face.  

“You will take care?”

A line appeared above her brow, considering him, “As you command.” 

She made a motion toward the castle. “Now please forgive me, but I must bathe after that ordeal.  I may find pleasure ushering new life into the world but I do not enjoy the smell.”  Her eyes glowed, coming closer so no other would hear her, “So before you go traipsing through our solar, consider yourself warned husband.”

 _Husband_.  It was the first time she’d said the words aloud.  They reverberated inside of him reminding him of his conversation with the maester.  His eyes followed her and eventually his feet.  Stopping just outside the pens he watched her walk toward the Great Keep, constantly swiping at the mud that had soiled her dress.   

Ghost nudged his hand and Jon looked down into his wolf’s stare.  The direwolf’s eyes moved in the direction of Sansa, as he started to hobble and follow her.  When Jon didn’t accompany him, Ghost turned around and whined. 

As he watched the swishing of her skirts move away from him he felt the mysterious conviction of the animal’s prodding burn an insatiable hole into his gut. 

#

Long after midday Sansa wandered out into the Godswood searching for Jon.  The winter air had turned crisp but the snows hadn’t fallen yet, though the skies looked ready to burst at any moment.  She looked around her and ahead of her, remembering her wedding nearly a year ago. 

These past months at Winterfell had been the happiest since before she left for King’s Landing.  Despite the awkwardness and their mutual ache for family, Jon and Sansa had started their own kind of family and the shared affection between them had grown from familial to sweet. 

From the moment she’d seen him at Castle Black, even when he’d returned home the first time with his queen, she had cared for him deeply.  Bran and Arya’s returns had been tainted, neither of them being the sibling she had grieved.  Both were changed and then gone with the winter storm that swept death over their world.

Jon was Jon.  Since their reunion, the steadiness of his character had woven itself through her, and now her once hardened heart had begun to see a happy future.   

Perhaps that was why she chose today to finally bring it up.  Unable to put _it_ from her mind since he’d kissed her, she found herself constantly distracted by the memory of his lips. 

In the evenings while they sat together, she would think it a good time for this conversation, but in the walls of Winterfell she struggled at the suggestion, not wanting to shake this happiness they had found together. 

On their wedding night, they had both agreed that this time would come.  Sansa was encouraged by the shift of his eyes and feelings of his hands.  It had been such a slow fade that she could never pinpoint the moment of the change.  Her ability to deflect his moods with a song and bear with him under the torment of their memories had filled with a sense of prominence in his heart. 

In the next few steps his heavily bundled body came into view.  Pausing, the image struck her as the sound of her feet crunching against the white blanket of earth caused his eyes to perk up into hers.

“My lady?”

His tone so pleasant she once again thought how grateful that he was hers, “I wondered if I can disturb you?”

“You don’t need to ask.”  His head bent back down over Longclaw his skillful hands cleaning the blade.

Sansa approached him, voicing her thoughts upon seeing him here.  “You look like my father when I see you here.  I imagine my mother approached him many times as he tended to Ice from this very rock.”

He looked up to her, his eyes soft but he remained speechless watching her closely.  Sensing his ill at ease she came and perched herself next to him.  “Is that something you wished I didn’t say?”

Eyes forward he was thoughtful, “Perhaps it is strange- remembering what we were.”

“Does it still bother you?”

This time he turned his eyes toward her, retaining hold of his sword. “At night I sleep beside you and by day we rule the North together. I must admit it has been easier than I imagined the first night you came begging for me to marry you.”

Her smile spread across her pretty lips and he enjoyed her laugh.  “I know you will forever tease me because it was I that proposed to you.”

“It was a little forward.” He smiled in affection for her.  “What brings you out here this afternoon?  Don’t you see a storm will blow in soon?”

She looked up wearily at the sky.  “The storm will not stop what must happen next.”  She looked back to him, “We promised each other.”

Pausing, she watched his face close.  “Do you understand me?” 

The sigh came out, even though he didn’t intend for it to.  The mirth fell from between them and the seriousness of duty replaced it.  His eyes rested on her, “Aye.  I do.”

Turning back her eyes spoke of her trepidation, “We must at least try.”

A flush covered him, her words making him slightly angry.  “That’s rather cold.”

She huffed at him, taking it as the insult it was.  “What would you have me say then?  Make love to me husband?  Is that more of an offer you can stomach?”

The pair sat in silence bodies turned away from each other.  It was long moments before Sansa spoke.  “Jon-I shouldn’t get angry- of course it’s uncomfortable.  I feel the same awkwardness as you.” 

“Why did you stop coming to me while we sleep?”  The question was made with his eyes down away from her.

Sansa’s mouth opened, a deep blush spread from her neck and into her hair, “I didn’t know you had noticed.”

“I noticed.”  Then he looked up, “Why?”

Caught off guard by his tone and the soft look in his eye Sansa felt compelled to be honest, “The night of your return from King’s Landing I heard you whisper… And it was not my name on your lips.”

“Gods Sansa,” he raked his hands over his face.  “If I dreamed of her it was only because of being in King’s Landing.  I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”  She reached out to him, grasping his hand.  Finally his eyes fell against hers.  “You loved her and that doesn’t make me angry.”

He bristled at her declaration, his secrets gnawing, but kept silent.  Instead he spoke about her. “ _You_ are my wife.”

“Yes I am.  And I am secure in what _we_ are.”

The confidence in her eyes soothed the guilt, “Did I hurt you?”

“Jon-”

He interrupted her, “Don’t lie to me.”

Her brows knitted as a pink blush covered her face, “I felt… alone.”

Long moments passed and she wondered if he wanted her to leave.  Instead she spoke back to him.  “I’m a selfish person Jon.”

Despite his strange look she continued,  “My whole life I just wanted what I wanted without thought or care of who it might hurt as long as I was happy.  That all ended when Joffrey took father’s head.”

Pausing his movements, he fixated on her eyes.  Never had he heard her speak of their father’s- her father’s death, except when she was ravished with fever.

“He made me stand out on the gates and look at it,” her voice fell to a whisper as her eyes went far away.  “And I told myself that if I came out alive I would live for the North, for the people, or something other than myself.  I’ve not made a selfish choice since, until the day I married you.”

Opening his mouth to speak, she stopped him.  “You know it’s true.  You could have had Winterfell, the North, you didn’t need me.  But I knew you would save me because you are unselfish, purely good.”

He shook his head, “Have you forgotten it was I who bent the knee and gave away your home?  A home I had no right to give.”

“And you saved us; because of your loyalty and virtue we are alive now.”  She looked at him, “I know I asked for too much when I asked for you to marry me and now I come asking for more and I’m sorry that duty must be our choice.  A child would not just be for me Jon, if it helps.  But he would be for the North, and for father.  I don’t want his memory to die or his house to be forgotten.” 

 The span of several moments passed while they stared at each other.  A light snow began to fall, “And are you able to reconcile what it will be like between us?”

She glanced heavenward, a flash of memories streaming into her conscious. “I have never been embraced by someone who cares for me.  I have no expectations besides the gentleness in which you have always handled me.”

Looking down, his mouth opened and his shoulders rose as he took in a deep breath.  He whispered to her, “I never thought to have a child.”

She looked at him and nodded simply, her eyes glowed with their shared vow.  “Our child.”

He looked at her and thought about the legacy he was embracing.  And he thought about her, soft and breathless, cradled in his arms.  The snow melted on his skin, “The blood of Winterfell.”  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa really do write themselves and I am fascinated by the story they are telling. Thanks for sticking with me. I promise this is all going somewhere. :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa decides to take the situation into her own hands as a shattering realization torments Jon. Secrets are shared and lines are crossed as the dragon and the wolf plan to leave Winterfell again.

After their conversation, each left with a gnawing pit in her stomach.  His shoulders were burdened once again, and he grew solemn in his brooding.  The knit of his brow was turned away from her, eyes staring off into distant places that he wouldn’t let her see.  She was quiet, and nervous, keeping her hands clasped in front of her, even when they were alone.

Ravens flew in from the corners of Westeros, telling the North of a settling, perhaps momentary, of the clash of ideologies about the continued governance of the continent.  With no more uprisings or invaders, Jon felt the outward tension ease slightly, trying to navigate how to fulfill his vows. 

He was all too aware of his own inability to cross the threshold between them.  His thoughts on the subject were wildly murky, this still hesitant desire mixing with memories of their past.  An intensity that had grown inside of him, that same fire mirrored in her eyes.    

Amidst the swirling snow he’d agreed the time had come to try for a child. Such a thing had seemed simple enough; a babe would forever unite their two families, finally ending the war that had erupted over the selfishness of their forebears.

Tonight the nature of his feelings churned through him as he made his way back to their solar.  Jon hated that now they were anxious with each other.  It wasn’t wrong, to take your wife and make a family, but he wasn’t willingly that she should suffer through another traumatizing bedding.

The fire blazed as he opened the door, surprised that the candles were not put out.  Her form was curled up in her spot by the fire, her sewing still in her lap.  Quietly, he took off his fur and his jerkin, untucked his shirt surprised she had not stirred. 

Coming towards her he noticed one of his shirts in her hand.  Crouching, he knelt before her and eased the material and needle out of her grip, setting it to the side.  When he looked back toward her, he found her open eyes staring at him. 

“I thought I’d find you in bed.” 

She stretched a little then pulled her back off the chair, “I was waiting for you.”

“Is this an ambush?”

She laughed, “Not at all, this is welcome news.”  Reaching to the side she pulled out a raven’s scroll, and handed to him.

Jon scanned the words, “When Sam didn’t come to King’s Landing I feared the worst.  I am happy for him.”

Sansa looked down over his features, “Did you leave your smile in the South?”   

Rolling up the parchment, he looked back at her, “I’d like to see you ride for a month in these winds and enter the gates beaming.  I’m just weary is all.”

Her eyes floated back to the scroll, “Will you go to Horn Hill?”

He thought about leaving her again, riding south with only his nightmares for company.  “I wouldn’t know what to do at a wedding.  I will go if you agree to come with me and tell me what to wear.”

His teasing amused her but, the color between them was guarded. Standing up, she turned around for him to help her out of her dress.  She moved her braid over her shoulder and waited. 

When he didn’t move she turned around to him, “Did you forget how to undress me?”

Clearing his throat he came forward, but Sansa stopped him with a hand to his chest.  “Would you rather I call for a maid?”

The touch of her fingers brought all his early thoughts to the surface.  He shook his head, “It’s still- I’m just…”

Sansa’s brow came down a red blush blooming on her cheeks.  Her hand pressed harder against his chest, feeling the uneven skin under the linen.  She took a step forward, the line of her sight traveling up to the slit in his shirt.

Her fingers slid up his chest, making their way to the deep scar that peeked out from the opening.  With great care, she grazed the edge of the mark, “Do you remember when they stabbed you?”

Chest heaving, his eyes slid closed.  Inside his body, he could feel the internal groan just as if it was her lips against his flesh and not her fingertips. 

His hand reached up and removed her touch from his chest, “I don’t want to, but sometimes it’s all I can feel.”

Her rejected hand balled into a fist, his icy words hard to deflect.  She swallowed looking at him. 

“It’s late Sansa,” he repeated his earlier implication.   “Turn around and I will help you ready for bed.”

The shock of his retreat from her still stung her skin but she turned, very aware how his hands avoided any contact with her body. 

When they climbed under the furs, Jon turned over, his back facing her.

Sansa was not unaware of his struggle.  He still lived inside the bitterness of his past, and he pushed her away anytime she got to close to his scars, both the visible and invisible.   Staring at the blackness above her, she wondered about his secret life that he lived in his head, hidden away from her.  It left her hollow, aching for the hope she’d felt in his promises of a future and an heir.

#

Inside their chambers Jon felt the warmth of the morning.  Surprised he looked over at the fire, realizing someone must have built it up this morning and retreated, letting their lord and lady stay a bed.  He stretched, feeling the weariness that came from his worries catching up with him.  Looking over next to him, he was pleased to find Sansa still asleep beside him.

Her form covered with a sheet of light linen, the heavy furs pushed from her body as well.  Transfixed by her breathing he propped himself up to watch the gentle rise and fall of her chest. In the quandary of his feelings, Jon released a heavy sigh, exhausted in his fight against the shifting between them.  In the hidden places of his mind, he allowed himself a moment to imagine what it would be like if Sansa was _his._   He groaned, his body easily surrendering to the fervor of such thoughts.  Turning away from her he inadvertently brushed against her legs.

Instead of startling, she woke comfortably, her eyes blinking up at the ceiling and then turned toward her husband.  An affectionate smile met his russet eyes and her voice dripped with morning, “Jon…”

The tone of her voice caught him and the ache of tenderness in his chest shifted, replaced by a carnal longing.  His emotion so changed toward her in a matter of his whispered name on her lips that it caused a desperate need to ignite inside of him.  Suddenly, she wasn’t the Sansa he’d always known. She was _Sansa_ , ivory skin, blue eyes and long lashes that fluttered only for him.  He was fire and she was the only thing to squelch it.  Swallowing his eyes traveled the length of her body, sweeping back into her face, unable to respond. 

Noticing the change in his features she propped herself up as well.  She questioned him in her stare, but her lips formed into a tender smile.  Making a move, she put her body closer to his, her hand reaching up to familiarly stroke his beard.    

For the bliss of a few seconds, their hips kissed each other.  Sansa looked down, losing her breath at the newness of the feeling.  Jon’s hand wandered to her waist, his touch pulling her chest against his.  When her eyes looked back, her nose brushed his unintentionally, the abyss of their attraction suddenly drowning him.    

The fall was overwhelming; his mind finally surrendering to what his heart had been trying to say.  She was the sun, her radiance the light that had brought him out of darkness.  Waves of memory crashed over him, the grasp of her hand, a kiss on her forehead, a green dress emblazoned with a wolf; all irrevocably changing the reason for their unearthly connection.  In his mind he saw them in the Godswood, and her delicate face cradled in his hands.  Spring and sky, water and life…

The sudden awareness disoriented him as he sprang away from her, nearly jumping out of bed.  Pulling his boots on quickly he stared at the fire, contemplating exactly when this depravity had taken him.  Pulling up visions of their past, he tried to protect himself from the sudden pull, but it was weighty and right, stronger than the ache of memory.

Hearing her rise, he watched her braid her hair quickly, wrapping a large fur around her body. 

She came to his side, and poured herself a glass of water.  Bringing the horn mug up to her lips she took a drink. “Are you well this morning?”

At the proximity of her body he tensed, and she immediately felt his unease.  The lady tried again, “Jon?”

His eyes closed his body betraying him; he shook himself as if he could release the desire that clung to him. 

Pausing she waited a beat, thinking of his behavior last night, “Are you angry with me?”

In protection of his feelings he scoffed at her, “Gods Sansa.  We are not children anymore.”

The color drained from her face, “What happened to you in King’s Landing Jon?”

His hands balled into fists at his sides, “What has that got to do with anything?”

“I warned you before to be smarter and you chose not to listen.  It seems again my advice has gone unheeded.”  She tugged the fur tightly around her body, “Since your return, each time you meet my stare, I can see the guilt in your eyes.”

Looking away his chest clinched painfully, she saw him more plainly than he even saw himself. “The past is always between us.”

The ire rose inside her, her emotions a mixture of confusion, “Then tell me!  Let me share your suffering.”

The stone thumped under the weight of his boot, the air in the room sparked with heaviness.  He’d be foolish to lay his shame on her, endangering her once again.  Standing before her, he spoke directly, “I am not beholden to you.”

  The remembered taste of him turned to ashes in her mouth. “I am your wife.”   

“And I warned you that I would disappoint you.”

The choke in her voice froze under the coldness of his words, “You have, but only because you can’t see me as someone capable to handle all of what you are, the fire and the ice.  Nothing I say or do will ever reach your heart.” 

She took a breath her voice deeper, “And you’re right, we are no longer children.  Yet you refuse to treat me as anything but that.” Her shoulders set as her eyes pierced him, “Now would you please leave so I could get ready for the day?  There is much that requires my attention.”

Grabbing his belt, vest and cloak he made his way from her as quickly as possible.  As he dressed himself in the hall he tried to shut out the sound of her muffled cries that floated through the door. 

#

_“I’ll protect you, I promise.”_

Those words moved through Sansa and mocked her as she sat next to her lord husband in the great hall.  Men from the surrounding areas had come to Winterfell with complaints of bandits on their land.  Jon was addressing them, promising men to ride home with them and clear the thieves away.

“You have a wife and children you said?”  Lady Stark addressed the common man.

Jon shifted toward Sansa as she spoke, his recognition of his feelings tucked away in a secret corner of his heart.  It wasn’t against tradition for the lady to speak but it did surprise him.  Lately, she had remained silent during their time visiting with the people.

The man looked toward Jon, asking permission to answer.  Jon nodding giving consent, “You may answer Lady Stark, Carth Merchain.”

“Aye m’lady.  My wife is Fryda and our two sons are Jorell and Rendell.”

“And who protects them now that you’ve ridden here?”

“M’brother Lady Targary- err Stark.  He fought next to your husband against the Boltons before the Great War, a loyal Northerner to your house.”

“Ah…”  Sansa seemed pleased with him which earned a chest puff from the older gentleman.  “I wonder if I could send your wife a gift?”

A moment of shock, then an awed expression plastered his face, “Twould be such a great honor to receive a gift from the great House of Stark… and Targaryen.”

“Of course if our lord would agree?”  Sansa looked at Jon, her blue eyes muted and protected.  The past few days had been tense between them, but for the people they would remain united; no matter what quarrels they’d experienced behind closed doors.

Jon felt the desire to reach under the table and touch her but stayed his hand, “My wife wants to give you a gift Carth and I want to give you soldiers to protect your interests.  Go and meet my men outside.  Whatever gift the lady has for you will be brought to your party.”

He nodded his head as he was escorted out by the guards.  Jon made a motion with his hand ending the interviews for the day.  They’d been sitting for hours listening to the concerns of their people.  He was still exhausted from their late night and the set of Sansa’s shoulders was equally as labored.

He followed her, but kept silent as she made her way to a storeroom and picked out some fabrics as a gift for Carth’s wife.  Her manner was assured as she gave the soldier instructions on how to pack the material, as if such a thing was as natural as the snow piled against the walls of Winterfell. 

The soldier left, leaving Jon and Sansa alone.  Sansa looked down at her hands, a small yawn escaping her mouth.  Coming up beside her, he offered his arm.  She looked over him, but wouldn’t deny him.  Without a word, they walked to their chambers together.

Closing the door behind them, Sansa hugged herself, Jon’s words once again floating in her mind…

_“I’ll protect you I promise.”_

And then his present voice cut through the silence, “It was very kind to offer him a gift.  He nearly fainted at the sound of your voice.”

“I remember mother when she would sometimes sit next to father.  When the days were long and many complaints were heard, she would be by father’s side to offer the men something to take home to their families.  I remember her saying it did them good to know their lady cared for them as much as their lord.”

“You have a soft heart Sansa.  I am proud to be your husband.”

She turned to him unable to reconcile his words and actions, “Are you?”

“Of course I am.”

“And yet the other morning you jolted away from my hand as if I had the pox.  Am I so revolting that you must run from me?”

 “You sent me from you as I remember.” 

She groaned in frustration.  Before he had a chance to respond, she pulled off her heavy fur and let it fall against the stone.  “If you’ll not share your scars with me, I will force mine upon you.  Something must break this stalemate that has lodged between us or Winterfell is doomed.”  

She turned around, pulling her braid into her hand. “Unlace my dress.”

 “Sansa…”  He took a step back. 

Her voice swooped, revealing her desperation, “Please Jon.”

He moved forward, the brush of her skirt against his hips he pulled the laces of her gray dress.  When it came loose around her shoulders he backed away. 

She pulled the dress down, and stepped out of it, letting it fall into a clumsy pile that had formed on her cloak.  Turning around she looked directly in his face as she pulled up the sleeves of her shift.  She looked down at the uneven skin of her forearms, “I’ve tried to hide the horrors of my appearance from you but we have to start somewhere.”  She pushed her arm out to him.

Coming forward Jon lost his breath at the site of her tortured arms.  He reached out pulling her arm into both of his hands.  With a light touch, he let his fingertips trace the scars her abusers had made.  How had he lain beside her for months with her secrets concealed? 

“Were these from Ramsey or from Joffrey?”

She looked down where his hands touched her.  “Mostly Ramsey.  Joffrey enjoyed watching his guards beat me.  My back and legs are littered with his signatures.”

“Ramsey would say to me, ‘All people bleed Sansa.  Your fancy blood looks like the rest of us.  And your screams sound the same as any common whore.’”

With such clarity she recalled her nightmares that when she’d voiced this truth her eyes shut, trying to force the darkness away.  A sob broke forth but she stifled it, “I am very aware of how damaged I am, but I am still alive and so are you.  Stop trying to protect me.”

He swallowed, “Of course I am trying to protect you.  I have seen how you shake in our bed afraid I might touch you.”

 “I don’t deny it!  But you think that I cannot handle the weight of your scars and mine.  You’re scared that your secrets might damage me this time beyond repair.  But I am strong Jon, and have lived through more than you can imagine.”  

“You’re right, I am afraid what will happen, when we…  After I…”

“We must, even if it’s uncomfortable.”  Her whole face turned the color of her hair as her arms reached down to pull her shift over her head.

To stop her, he pushed himself against her laying his hands against her hips.  Surprised, she tried to retreat from him.

Looking at her eyes, his grip was locked onto her, “I am a fool, but you misunderstand me and it’s my own fault.  I should’ve told you the nature of my thoughts.”

Her breath hitched and she moved under him, “Jon?”

“You were so serene laying there in _our_ bed.  You woke so beautiful and sweet that my chest ached just to watch you breathe.  Forgive me but holding you against me night after night; a man does have certain thoughts.”

Breath seemed to stumble out of him as words, when she didn’t speak he continued, his voice came out hoarse. “And things did change in King’s Landing, at least for me.”  His eyes closed, feeling her chest against his body.  “Sansa I don’t want to just father your children, but I want you.” 

There was no gasp or shudder, or even marked changed on her beautiful face, Jon noted as he stared, eager for her reaction.  Her still form remained so, the even keel of her breathing unnerving.  He took a step forward, swallowing.  “And I can’t tell you it doesn’t shame me, I can’t reconcile my desire with who we were.”

 “Why not? Do I repulse you Jon?”

He shook his head; his voice lowered a few octaves.  “No. That’s not it.”  

She took a long breath, “We have been dancing around this for months.  What else?”

“And,” he rubbed her waist.  “I fear if I take you out of duty, I will end up only scarring you further; making me just like all of the other men who have hurt you.” 

Sansa flinched, her chest heaving under his admission, finally giving herself the ability to breathe.  “That’s the terrible truth you have kept hidden from me?”  Sweet relief filled her, his words rekindling the hope in her breast.  “Do you think I pull your arms around me at night because I only want a child?”

“You are not in love with me Sansa.”  

Her eyes were glossy, as she whispered to him. “Since Castle Black I have wanted to love you Jon, but you’ve keep yourself hidden away from me.”  

He took a step closer to her, “You shouldn’t want that.”

She leaned in, “You are the most frustrating person I have ever met.”

A burst of air came from his lips, “And I might say the same thing.”

It was long moments before he spoke.  He pulled in a deep breath, as his hands clasped together behind the small of her back. “You accepted the invitation to Horn Hill?”

“Yes,” her brows pinched together surprised by his change of subject.  “The marriage of their lord will be honored with our attendance.”

“Then after that.”  He didn’t say anymore but dropped his hands and took a step back.  His eyes darted around the room, head down away from her.

She stared at his dark curls, “After that?”

“We will try for…” He lost his breath, as he pictured her standing in the snow, running into his arms.  It was a moment before he whispered his next words, “We will try after we return home.”

Sansa felt every one of his quiet words.  “Jon?”  She waited until his heavy eyes turned to her, “You are all that remains to me now, so don’t tell me I shouldn’t care for you.”   

#

In the deadness of night the snowy wind howled against the castle’s walls.  Jon lay next to Sansa unable to sleep.  Tomorrow they traveled for Horn Hill, to celebrate the marriage of the new lord of House Tarly.

The arduous journey to the Reach would not be easy on Sansa.  Her promise to never leave Winterfell again interrupted by the loyalty he still felt towards Sam.  His brother.  His only surviving brother. 

That they two had been the only members of the Watch to breathe the air after the destruction of the White Walkers still overcame Jon in a mountain of sadness.  The Wall had stood for thousands of years and in a matter of moments had been brought down in a flurry of blue fire. 

Sweat broke out across his body as he sat up gently, careful to not disturb Sansa.  He pulled his shirt off his body and tossed it to the floor.  The room was warm, the hot springs saw to that, but he savored the brush of cold that swept over his bare skin.  He had consumed far too much ale tonight and he lamented it now that his body felt the ill effects. 

His decisions during the war for life haunted him tonight.  Naivete before his murder, believing that men would side with him based on the soundness of his argument and carelessness after, involving himself with a woman he barely knew.  He remembered Sansa talking about her selfishness before.  Hadn’t he been exactly the same?  Caught up in an alliance, no matter how pure his initial intentions, it still had burned through him as a rapid fire laps over the hills.  He was left blackened after the infliction of her flame had extinguished. 

Returning home to Winterfell, Jon had been like the last dragons.  Weak and broken he had mourned the end of the queen and her children.  Depressed over his actions and secrets he had remembered the words of Maester Aemon, “ _A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing_.”  And he had been alone, for no one but his dead aunt knew the truth of his choices. Desperate for absolution that would never come; the life ebbed and waned as the moons marked the passage of time in the winter sky.

And then a bright cold morning Jon awoke.  Her voice in the keep surrounded him and he donned a cloak and wove his way down to the courtyard.  There amidst the disorder that somehow still stood, Sansa was; commanding men and women about the keep.  Tall and much too skinny, the winter had flushed the pink from her cheeks.  The dirt had soiled her dress and her hands were rough, unused to the work. 

It struck him in that moment how he’d promised to protect her then gave away her home, and abandoned her in his guilt to somehow put it back together again.  The only piece of her life that remained had been Winterfell after the war. He pictured her now as she had been that day, fighting to keep their home from complete destruction, and remembered how it had sparked his desire to do more than just exist: 

_Kneeling beside her she’d looked up to him.  The blue of her eyes shimmering with hopeful tears._

_He found her dirty hand, “What do you need for me to do?”_

_Without hesitation she welcomed him back to life, laying her soft lips against his palms. “You’re here now,” gentle tears fell against his fingers.  “And that is enough for me.”_

Despite her supposition, he had been the selfish one, not her.  When she first made the offer of marriage he should have agreed immediately.  Her desire was that Eddard Stark not be forgotten, and he felt that whole heartedly as well. 

Just as they both surmised in the beginning, marriage to each other had been unconventional.  The oddity of their situation would strike him, a reminder of their childhood, and a memory of their family.  He raked his hands over his face, their whole relationship pulsing now with a different light.  The whispers of ‘Targaryen’ ran through his mind again, surely the blackness that had tainted his heart.  What else would make him want her the way he had? 

“Jon…”  The whisper of her voice pulled his mind back to the present.

Her eyelids fluttered, Sansa turning to face him, “Are you alright?”

His stormy gray eyes tried to make out the features of her face in the softness of firelight.  “I couldn’t sleep.”

Sitting up Sansa shifted next to him, “Are you burdened my lord or drunk?”

“Must you always read me so plainly?”

“I am your wife, it’s my duty to pay you attention.”  She smiled but it faded quickly, “What ails you truly?”  

His tone was neither angry nor resigned, but honest.  “Knowing I will be with Sam- the past keeps running itself through me, just like the knives that murdered me.”

Thinking about his death made her shudder.  Her eyes drifted becoming accustomed to the gentle glow, settling against his chest.  Sharing his room, Sansa had seen glimpses of his scars before, but this was the first time that she allowed herself to stare.  Studying them she saw the crescent and jagged wounds, which still left skewed trenches in his flesh.  No amount of healing or time could remake him; he would be forever marked by mutiny.

Remembering his reaction to her hands, Sansa looked up at him and scooted closer, “Can I touch them?”

His shoulders heaved in the darkness as he nodded his head, moving his body closer to her. 

Subtly, she reached out toward his lean stomach and urged her fingers over each cut.  The indented skin, moved under her touch, warm and rigid.  The last wound lay over his heart and she could feel its beat humming under her fingertips.  In her mind, Sansa marveled at the magic that had brought him back.

He sucked in a breath, and then expelled it softly, this time he did not pull away from her touch.  “Your hands are cold.”

“The past feels like our scars, jagged and full of the memory of our pain.”  She touched her stomach unknowingly. “And yet we shouldn’t cling to it or let it frighten us.  When the snows fall and the white winds blow-”

He finished for her, “The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

Her hand went flat against his chest, his flesh warming her hand. 

A powerful emotion swept over Jon, entrenching deeper inside of him, fusing her touch and his body.  Feeling her hand slip off of him he pulled his legs under him and faced her.  “I am not a wolf.”

Her pretty lips smiled at him, “A dragon raised by wolves.”

“The son of fire…” His voice was pained.

“And of ice,” her eyes were confident.  “I know who you are Jon.  You are the blood of the dragon, but you have the heart of a wolf.  You were destined for death because of your name and yet my father stole you away and protected you with a lie.” She cupped his face, “A beautiful lie.”

He leaned into her palm, relishing in the human contact, her gentle touch cooling the furnace inside of him. “How have your scars not tainted your sweetness?”

A small laugh escaped her, her hand falling back into her lap. “You know as well as anyone that I am no longer sweet.” 

Reaching out he caressed the ends of her hair, “You try to hide it behind walls of steel but your sweetness remains Sansa.” He wound his hand through her locks, wrapping them in his fingers.  The past wove itself against his chest, pressing him, he released it. “I knew someone who was like that once.”

“Someone?”  

“A wilding girl...  She was hard as dragon scales but tender underneath.”  His voice grew softer, “She had red hair and could beat me in battle- well she did beat me in battle.  Put three arrows in me.”

Sansa looked horrified, “She must have hated you.”

“She loved me.”  His voice grew sad and he gripped her hair tighter.

“And you loved her?”

“I did.”

“Why have you never spoken about her before?” Sansa waited in the silence.

“She was mine and I didn’t want to share her.”  He saw her features flicker, so he continued, “She’s dead now.  I burned her body north of the Wall many years ago now.”

Sansa reached her hand across her body and laid it over his, awash in her copper hair, “I am sorry the past brings you pain Jon.  I am sorry you lost someone else you loved.”

His head went to the side, “Aye you are sweet.”

“I’m a wolf, and wolves are not sweet.”

“You are a wolf, when you stand before our people.  In the Great Hall you wear the face of the North and hold her mantle.  But when you think no one is paying attention you are soft, like a lady.  Like your mother, Sansa.”

The mention of Catelyn was always uncomfortable for Sansa.  Her mother had hated Jon and her treatment of him had been anything but kind.  “She was never soft towards you.”

“No, but her daughter is.” 

His hands came free from her hair and he pulled her up against him.  On their knees they were face to face, their bodies pressed against each other.  He could feel her through her thin shift, the ample form of her shape.  His hands splayed against her cheeks, “Will you despise me one day Sansa?”

“How can you ask me that?” Her voice strained caught unaware by his quick motion. 

All he could think about was her skin; under his weathered thumbs he grazed her elegant cheeks. 

She drew up to him, “I’m alive because of you.  I was dead- maybe not physically like you but dead all the same.  That monster killed everything in me again and again.  You brought me back.  Not Arya, not Bran, nor Winterfell, just you.  The moment you took me in your arms at Castle Black I felt my blood burn with purpose again.” 

His hands slid up into her hair as his mouth whispered over hers, “Gods you were beautiful.”

The warmth that traveled down her body sent her forward her nose skimming his.  “I was covered in dirt and…” She looked at him strangely, “You thought I was beautiful?”

He fell against her in a tender yearning, their lips parting, tasting each other.  His flame lapped against her, pouring his blaze and lighting her on fire as well.  She in turn, held on to him, coaxing her body closer.  

“Let me see you Sansa.  Let me see your scars.” His hoarse whisper broke the connection of their mouths.

Her eyes opened as she trembled.  She caught his hands as they reached for the bottom of her shift, shaking her head. 

“Don’t fear me.”   

On their knees, face to face, Sansa looked at Jon.  The storm of his eyes billowed, his body flush against hers, her lips still burned from his kiss.  The Great Hall was not the only place she had the ability to be a wolf.   Taking a deep breath she released his wrist, giving him her permission to see her. 

He laid her down against the furs, her hair splayed out against the pillows.  The light was faint, but glowed enough for him to maneuver her tunic up past her hips, exposing her stomach. 

Her lips waivered, as painful tears came to her eyes.  Her hands covered her face, “I’m so ashamed.”

Wholly affected by her vulnerability he wrapped the furs over her legs, retaining her privacy.  A small portion from her chest to the furs lay exposed to his touch.  His fingers glided over the uneven skin, he marveled at the softness despite the remnants of her torture.

He looked down for the span of several moments, following the lines with his fingerprints.  Some were grazes, small scraps from knives and fingers.  Other marks were harder for him to stomach; their breadth and depth told the story of her suffering.  And this was just a small piece of her torture.

He laid his lips tenderly against her bare skin, over and over again, reclaiming each piece of her body in sweet devotion. 

A gasp of air escaped her as she removed her arms from over her eyes.  Watching him, he continued to graze his nose and lips over her scars, each touch, lingering a little longer than before.  When he finally ceased, she looked down into his stormy eyes. 

He crawled up beside her, his voice awash in the fervency of his emotion.  “I would see him torn apart again if I could take away your pain.”

Her small hand grasped his cheek, her blue eyes singing to him a new song. “You help burn away my nightmares.”

Leaning down he kissed her again, his hand stroking her bare side.  She pulled away from him, acceptance in her eyes, tears in her voice, “Be gentle with me Jon.”

Aching, he rolled onto his back, his being a collection of warring emotions.  He wasn’t going to bed her, not when her fear still burned through her desire.   

Reaching across the bed, he laid his arm across her body.  Her hands came up and wrapped around his forearm, eyes turning to him.   

His voice shook, “A son of fire and the daughter of ice, what stories will they tell of us?” 

Contentment flooded over her, safe in his care, he had restored her ability to trust, “The dragon and the wolf.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grateful for loyal friends and happy to celebrate their union, a gentle warning stirs a greater tension between Jon and Sansa that may propel them toward their promises sooner than they planned.

The journey behind them Sansa settled in front of her fire in the large, strange room.  Since arriving at Horn Hill she’d been given a tour, treated to a meal and finally excused herself for the evening.  The hall was nothing like Winterfell, its high ceilings reminding her of the Red Keep, and she was not impressed.

Smiling graciously at Sam and Gilly, Sansa had been perfect, the picture of politeness.  After all, they had fought so long for their right to marry without a mutiny in the Reach, that she probably would have gone to King’s Landing to see the celebration of their marriage.  During the Great War, both had been guests at Winterfell and Sansa had grown very fond of them.  Though, Gilly was a wildling, it mattered not to her anymore.  The Wall was gone, releasing Sam from his vow, as was what was left of most of Gilly’s people.  They had all fought bravely against the threat together, and in Sansa’s mind there was only the living and the dead.  The wildling was one of the living and that was all that mattered now.

Winter remained here, even though they were further south.  Sansa was comforted by the cold, the only familiar thing about her surroundings. Turning her face into her furs she breathed in deeply, searching for the smell of home.  Looking beside her, to the place Jon usually occupied, she felt the emptiness of his seat.

It was foolish missing him- he was asleep down the hall, or perhaps still awake visiting with Lord Tarly.  Grateful for separate chambers during her marriage to Tyrion, Sansa lamented them now.  She’d grown so accustomed to sharing a room with Jon that it was daunting to think about sleeping in such an unfamiliar place alone.

A yawn shuddered through her as stood to call her maid to help her ready for bed.  Maybe the exhaustion from the journey would be enough to distract her from the hollow void that settled in her gut.  It seemed that would be her only sleeping companion this night.

#

Jon sat with Sam, talking, laughing and sharing stories from the old days well into the night.  They drank, Jon more than Sam, and then the conversation turned as Sam mentioned Maester Aemon. 

“My great-great uncle…”  Jon’s voice was hushed.  As his eyes looked over at Sam’s, “It is strange- the truth now matters nothing.  I always wanted to know who my mother was but my family is gone.  Aemon is dead, Daenerys and my father…  How does it better me to know?” He took a long drink from his cup and poured himself another. 

“Sometimes, I still dream about her.”

Sam remained quiet looking over at Jon’s worried expression.  Jon continued, “There is no joy and everything is black.  And fire, lots of fire.  I know I helped her along the path of her madness.”

His friend’s voice held all the censure of a septa, “Jon.”

“Sam,” Jon arched his eyebrows, just as assured.     

“She burned my family before she met you, which in turn killed my mother and left my sister at the mercy of who knows what.  You didn’t do that.”

“I mean I didn’t care that she was my father’s sister-”

“Yes you did.” Sam said with much conviction.  “And she knew it.”

His eyes rounded the room falling to his friend’s face, “What do you mean?”

The breath that shook Sam rattled in his heavy form.  “You had been at Winterfell maybe a week, you found out about your parents and refused to see her.  She came to me shortly after the siege when Sansa was taken, and asked me to stop you from going south.”

Jon’s blood boiled, “She didn’t want me to go to Sansa?”

“Commanded would have been a better word.  Her last comment was about your demeanor since learning you were a Targaryen.  She said it wasn’t right that you should be more loyal to your sister than your queen, especially when your queen was your actual blood.”

Rubbing his hand over his jaw Jon nodded. “She was angry with me for taking the dragon.” He thought of Rhaegal, a beautiful and mysterious monster, momentarily filled with a mixture of guilt and sadness. 

“You were the one that saved us Jon; you were the one that killed the Night’s King.”

“I never would have made it close enough if it hadn’t been for Bran’s plan and the queen’s children.”

Sam watched his friend, “Did you love her, truly?”

Jon was silent a long time.  He let the memory of what he’d shared with Daenerys move through him.  The spark and the fire and the ashes…  The truth, the lies and the deception… “It wasn’t real.”  

“Maybe none of this is real.”  Sam’s voice was full of sadness, “This game that we play.”

The words hit Jon, twisting in his gut, “Who could have predicted that the Bastard of Winterfell would one day rule the North.”

Sam looked around, “And a man such as me? Lord of Horn Hill?  Married tomorrow to a Wildling?  Sometimes I can’t believe it has all happened.  And it feels like it could be ripped away if I let myself feel happy.”

 At that moment Jon thought of his red headed wife, her voice pulling him out of his grief.  “Sansa feels real.”

“She has been good to Gilly- corresponding during the past years as we’ve fought to be together uncontested.  I did not expect that anyone would ever care who I married.  Not that I ever planned to have a wife before… But Lady Sansa has been a steady friend to her and I am grateful.”

“Steady,” Jon liked that word to describe her.  “Aye she is.”

“And beautiful.” 

Sam noticed Jon’s look and shrugged his shoulders, “You’d be a dolt to disagree and a fool to not mention it.  Your wife is one of the most beautiful ladies in the seven kingdoms.  What is it the minstrels say?  He hummed the tune, “The Queen of Winter that tamed a dragon.”

Sam followed Jon’s eyes back to the fire, “I was surprised when I got your raven, telling me of your marriage.  It was so fast and with all the unrest I’m sorry I could not be there with you.”

Jon shook his head, “No.  The ceremony was small and there was not celebration after.  Because of the circumstances, it just didn’t feel right to treat it like a normal wedding.”

“And the marriage?  You seem to be happy enough.”

The river of her eyes floated through him, the pink of her lips smiled at him.  His whole body warmed as the strange blend of duty and desire filled his heart.   

Noticing Sam’s look, Jon questioned him, “Does that surprise you as well?”

“I don’t know, perhaps.  On the one hand, Lady Sansa is a good companion.   She is thoughtful and strong, a very competent ally.”

“But political allies don’t always make for marital bliss?”

“There it is,” Sam let Jon finish for him.  “And even though it was false, it has to be strange considering the past.” 

His brow knitted together.  “I know what they whisper behind my back, a Targaryen for sure now that I have married my sister.”

Jon drained his cup, and looked hard at Sam, “She is not my sister.”

“Aye, I know that, but do you?   

This made a rumble form in Jon’s chest, “We are navigating as best we can.”

“Aye- and now for another drink!”

Jon laughed at his friend, “There is nothing to tell.”

“Nothing?”

Jon looked at him sheepishly, “We are still growing used to each other and- well we haven’t…” He couldn’t say it feeling like a summer child. .

“Forgive me but how does one grow used to someone as their wife if you haven’t…?  Is she _really_ your wife?”

“She is my wife.”

“Alright, Alright…” Sam held up his hands, “I won’t make you say anymore.  I know you’re not a poet.”

They both shared a laugh at the memory, as Sam reached for the wine to pour but found it empty.  “Come,” he stood looking at his friend.  “I want a drink but you’ve emptied my pitcher.  Let us go and find one.”

“I think not.”  Jon stood, “You are getting married in a few days and you need your rest.  And I find myself exhausted as well.”

Sam stuck out his hand and Jon shook it and pulled him into a hug. 

Sam pulled away looking at him in earnest, “Thank you for being here my friend.”

“Sam, you are not just my friend.  You are my brother.” 

#

It really shouldn’t have surprised her, but when Sansa saw him standing before her she had to admit she’d never imagined or planned to lay eyes on him again.  She had cleared the other ladies out of the room, when the news of his surprise arrival had been whispered in her ear.

He was still the same, blonde curls, self assured eyes and small.  The Imp stood before her and she received him as best she could, with the hospitality of her station but the cold reserve of the North.

“I’m surprised to find you here my lord.  I would have thought you cared nothing about the marriage of a man whose family was burned alive by _your_ queen.”

Tyrion looked up at Sansa, and thought her much the same, if not more beautiful than when she was a young girl. He blinked her bluntness refreshing, “You are not wrong to be surprised my lady, I do still mourn for a different outcome to the war.”

Sansa glared at him, “How loyal of you.”

Tyrion was caught by her vehemence, “And has your husband so soon forgotten her?”

The steel melted as she remembered the feel of Jon’s gentle hands, and it wasn’t a barb so easily deflected as before. “What do you want my lord?  Is it to celebrate Lord Tarly’s marriage?  She paused as he raised his eyebrows, “The last time we saw each other I remember you vowing never to see us again, and yet, here you stand.”

“My lady if you remember the last time I was with you we buried our queen, though you may not think of her fondly. So, I would ask you to remember we buried our brothers as well.”

His voice was soft, truly pained and she remembered the day they’d buried the dead.  Bran’s far away eyes had finally closed, he giving his life for the protection of the realm.   Even though Ser Jamie’s handsome face and easy smiles had never pleased her it made her think of Lady Brienne, and a deep pain came across her chest. 

As she opened her mouth to speak, she heard the door open and Ser Selle came into the room drawing his sword.  He looked at the dwarf and then back to Sansa.

Sansa raised her hand, “I am in no danger from Lord Tyrion ser please put away your sword.”

He obeyed her command and backed away from the pair, “I will be outside the room my lady to cut him down if necessary.”

Tyrion stared with round eyes at the knight and then back to Sansa.  When the door was closed he swallowed, “What a pleasant man.”

“Forgive me my lord, where were we? It is not my intention to be callous, but this winter has only just begun and I find myself unhappy to be pulled so far south.  If you can be patient, I will request that Jon join us, so you can address us both.”  

“And yet the songs they sing of you in the West and the East- the red headed Queen of Winter, the wolf who found a dragon.  She does not need a husband to lead her, or to rule for her.”

“You flatter me with compliments but such songs are nonsense as I have grown to learn.”

The small lord watched her porcelain features amazed, “And yet in this winter you have grown strong.”  

“Lord Tyrion I agreed to I receive you because you were Jon’s ally in the Great War.  You were a loyal servant to Jon’s queen and a tremendous help after everything was done, but it is not for those reasons alone I will hear you.  The times when you rescued me from your nephew and didn’t force yourself upon me when I was your wife, have not been easily forgotten.” 

“You were good to me,” her voice did not waiver. “So despite the questionable histories of our families, I would like to put down our hostilities.”

“I thank you my lady.”  He approached her slowly, “I confess I am surprised I did not meet Lord Snow on the King’s Road several months ago as I made my way to the Eyrie.”

Many things confused her in that statement; she took them one at a time, “Lord Snow?”

“Lord Targaryen?  Lord Stark?”

She came toward him further, coming around in front of her chair. “His name is Jon, and he is not a bastard and therefore not a Snow.” 

“Very well,” Tyrion nodded.  “I agree he is not a Snow but I admit I don’t know what to call him. It’s very confusing with all his titles and his secret parentage.”  He paused and continued, “Lord of Winterfell? King in the North? Protector of the Realm? Aegon Targaryen sixth of his name or Jon Targaryen first of his name?”

A chill swept over Sansa seeing through him.  “What were you doing in the Eyrie?”  

“How perceptive you are wife.”

“I am not your wife my lord.”

Tyrion laughed, “Forgive me, slip of the tongue.”  He came forward and offered her his hand. 

Sansa looked down at him through squinted eyes but accepted his hand.  She let him lead her over to a small bench where they sat side by side.

“You are right my lady, I come here with teasing and with jokes but I do mean to be serious.”

“Is that possible?”

He cleared his throat, “Soon, this government that has been shaping itself across the country is going to collapse.  The war has left many castles empty, in all reaches of the country.  And while this counsel of leading men is a good idea, we need a central figure, a leader to… lead them all.” 

“A king?”

His head went from side to side his voice came out as a squeak, “A king? A leader, a central leader.”

Sansa raised her eyebrows, “A king.”

His small shoulders lifted, “But a good king.”

Looking down at her fingers Sansa sighed, “What does that have to do with the North?”

Tyrion looked over her, the fiery hair fit securely in her northern braid.  For a moment he was looking at Lady Catelyn.  “As I was in the Eyrie, enlisting the help of your strange little cousin, I heard the stories of the Northern Lady with red hair winning the hearts of the people.  I confess I had no intentions on coming to this wedding until I knew you were here also.”  I came here to see you and to warn you.” 

Sansa felt her chest clinch, “Warn me?”

“There are many people who would see Jon sit on the throne, with you by his side.  But there are others that despise him, for his Targaryen blood, for your marriage and the rumors about the magic of his resurrection.”

“Are you one of these enemies?”

“Sansa!  I’m hurt by the accusation,” his little hand went flat against his chest.  “If these people had faces I would name them, but the danger is real.  You must be safe and remind your husband what happens to Starks when they stay in the South too long.”

“He would say he is not a Stark,” she looked away.

“Well I suppose that’s true, but he looks enough like one for it to still apply.”

Sansa sighed, “Are men always so predictable?”

“Some men maybe.  I try to be less so.”   

“The ashes of the dead are barely covered and we are already splintering.”  She looked down at Tyrion, “Do you think the danger could follow us back to Winterfell?”

The western considered it, his thick eyebrows smashing together, “There is not a Northerner alive that would ever touch you, but it would do you good to be cautious toward outsiders.”  He looked toward the door where the knight had exited.

“That man?  He is not from the North.”

Sansa followed the line of Tyrion’s sight and shook her head, “He served alongside us in the war.  He fought at Jon’s side.”

Tyrion face scrunched, “And was not your brother Robb betrayed by his own men, sworn to his house?”

Sansa felt her skin crawl, “Yes.”

 “Just heed my warning and act with care.” 

She looked over at him with hooded eyes, “Lord Tyrion?  What kind of help were you looking for in the Eyrie?” 

#

The crisp wind hit Jon in the face as he adjusted his shoulders.  Walking out on the parapet along the east walls of this unfamiliar place, he stopped and stood staring at the Red Mountains in the distance.

“That’s where you were born.”  Sansa came and stood beside him, staring down at the majestic scenery.  “Right over those mountains,” she indicated with her hand.  “That is where father found you.”

Jon remained silent, but turned his body towards her.  His eyes traveled the length of her form, wrapped in a thick blue gown under her heavy fur.  Her ungloved hands linked neatly at her waist.  The exhale came from somewhere deeper than his chest. 

“I was thinking about that day.  About my mother and your father, trying to imagine what it was like for him.”  

Sansa nodded, “Keeping such a secret for so many years must have been painful.”

This made his eyes turn toward her, his own secrets heavy.  When she turned her eyes to him, he was met by the full force of her smile.  Comforted by her presence, the past melted away his body shifting to face her, “I missed seeing you at breakfast.”

She blinked at him, a smirk on her pink lips.  “I have secrets of my own.” 

He looked away briefly, his face lighting up in the smile he reserved only for her.  “Sam is very grateful for your support and your kindness to Gilly.”

“What else would I do but support them?  They are loyal allies and true friends.”

Taking a step forward, he reached for her waist, “The truest.”

She tensed a little, involuntary, but he noticed it anyway.  He shuffled his feet, awkwardly keeping his hands from her.     

She looked down between their bodies, knowing it was not only fear that gripped her chest, but the right words would not form in her brain.  “Lord Baratheon has arrived from the Stormlands.”  

The words came out uneven, the memory of Gendry touching her floated through his conscious, “Does that bother you?”

The wind blew, whipping her hair off of her shoulders.  “Not really,” she spoke quietly.  “It has caused quite a stir amongst the ladies since it was told that _he_ chose not to marry me.”

He moved himself closer to her, but forced his hands to stay at his side.  “And _that_ upsets you?”  

The deep tenor of his voice moved her eyes to his chest.  Reaching up she put her palm flat against him, where she remembered touching his scar.  “I don’t care what they whisper about me,” she shook her head.  “I don’t like what they say about you.”    

“And which version of the story do they whisper here?  A Targaryen degenerate that consults with witches?”

Sansa rubbed his chest, “The magic that brought you back was real, just like the power that saved us all from the dead.  They are small minded people Jon.”

“Sansa,” he covered her hand with his.  “I am your husband.  Foolish gossip will not deter me from what we’ve promised each other.  You trust me don’t you?”

Her brows rose, “I trust _you_.  Since Davos and Brienne are gone I haven’t had the courage to put my faith in anyone else.”  She looked around shivering, “I don’t care for the south.”

“And what of Ser Selle?  He seems to stick close to you always.”

“He seems loyal, but he’s not really one of us.  And we have been betrayed before.”   

The flicker of her eyes was hard to miss, “Are you afraid of him?”

“Not him really, but others.  The way that some of these men look at you...  I’m ready to go home.”

Jon’s features changed, longing and dreading the promises upon their return to Winterfell.  He thought about the snow, and the gray granite walls, the winter light and the Godswood.  On his skin he could feel the soft linen of his bed, and the heavy furs wrapping around him. 

Reaching down he brought Sansa’s hands up to his lips and kissed her gingerly on the inside of her wrist.  The sweetness of lavender spilled into his senses as he remembered the taste of her body. 

His mouth parted at the memory, her finger stretching out to feel his face under her hand.  This time when he moved against her it was the opposite of hesitation, her body eager for him as well.  Their lips met, for the first time since leaving Winterfell, in a sweet caress.    

It was tangled in each others’ arms, mouths crashing together that Ser Selle came upon them.  He paused, momentarily mystified at what he was witnessing, but still careful not to disturb them.   In truth, his stealth wouldn’t have mattered.  The pair was so consumed with each other the rest of the world had faded around them. 

As he backed up slowly, and eventually turned leaving them alone, a small smirk formed at the corner of his mouth and spread across his face.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The song is building to a deep crescendo for Jon and Sansa. Both are powerless against the timbre of its tune, and both are wary of the danger that still lurks in the shadows. When will they give into the melody? Will it be too late?

The pop of the fire accompanied the ladies that had joined together at the invitation of Lord of Horn Hill’s betrothed.  Gilly sat next to Sansa, a few other ladies from the castle gathered sporadically around the room.  The small bursts of conversation were hushed as the women worked at the needle.

“Your stitch is perfect,” the future Lady of Horn Hill noticed.  “Mine looks a little funny.”

Sansa laughed looking over at Gilly’s work, “I’ve had more years of practice.”

She smiled appreciatively, “I suppose that is true.”  Gilly put down her hands and tilted her head.  “Jon tells Sam ruling comes naturally to you too, which we observed as well.  Lady Stark is there anything that comes difficult to you?”

Looking down, Jon filled her thoughts.  Her head bobbed as she pulled at the seam of her work. 

As the months lengthened since they’d taken their vows in the Godswood, Sansa had felt a gradual shift between them.  At first just sitting beside Jon, knowing they had taken their future into their own hands, she had had felt that renewed strength solidify in her limbs.  The abuse and torment of her past was only a faint flicker of a lonely ember. 

In its place, the heart of her youth was fully resurrected, ignited under Jon’s flame. He was a glorious creation, careful hands and a kind heart.  The storm of his eyes had the ability to warm her palms and quicken her heartbeat whether it was in ire or affection.   

The night she’d proposed to him, Sansa had told him her intention was only to love him the best she could.  With each decision and step forward she had tried to honor that promise, not expecting for her loyalty to evolve.    The morning after their wedding, when her gut had twisted at the sight of his body in her bed, she should have recognized what was happening.  With care, she had tucked the furs tighter around him, and gone to open a window to cool the rush of fire in her blood.

As they’d adjusted to their new life, she watched him support her work, trusting her instincts on how best to put the North back together.  She’d grown curious about how he spent his days.  When he wasn’t organizing the soldiers and securing the defenses he would be swinging his sword.  Some of her favorite times spent at Winterfell were watching him train.  His agile body and light step like a dance.   

Now she couldn’t remember when she had first noticed his eyes, watching her like a maester at his studies.  Over their supper she’d catch his stare or while they spoke in their solar.  Despite his new attention, his veil remained.  She remembered the night he came and asked her to sing, how his shoulders were hunched over his burdened body.  As her voice had come back to her, he had softened towards her.  At first it was only his laugh and crinkled smile, and eventually it had been his arms, embracing her with a hesitating curiosity.  After everything they had been, their gravitation towards each other took her breath away.   

When he’d kissed her scars she’d seen it was not only to satisfy some carnal thirst, but a deeper need to set to rights the wrongs done to her.  With each graze of his fingertips on the rough skin of her torso and the pressure of his warm body against hers, Sansa knew everything had changed.  She was no longer just Sansa Stark of Winterfell, but she was the wolf that found a dragon.  Her body vacillated between two sharp precipices; embracing the truth which was now impossible for her to deny and hiding the remaining fragments of her heart away.    

“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,” Gilly’s eyes came down to her fingers.

“No,” Sansa shook her head.  “That’s exactly it.  After everything it’s hard for me to trust people.”

Her brown eyes thoughtful, Gilly nodded.  “At least you and Jon have that in common.”

The tips of Sansa’s mouth curved upwards, “That’s true.”

She looked around and kept her voice low, eyes on her sewing so others wouldn’t pick up on the seriousness of her words.  “Do you remember Ygritte?”

Shaking her head Gilly’s eyes became soft, “Sam told me once she and Jon were close when he spent time with Mance beyond the wall, but she died during the attack on Castle Black.  I never did meet her.”

Sansa nodded, “We talked about her, not that long ago.”  The blue of her eyes looked away, her voice became hushed.  “He loved her.”   

“Does that bother you?”

Taking a drink of the air Sansa looked back into her friend’s eyes, “Sometimes I wonder what if my father had told the truth, at least to us, and I had grown up knowing Jon was not my brother.  Would everything be different?”

“I think about when we reunited and when we took back Winterfell.  We were so close and I trusted him so completely.”  Her voice stunted at the memory, her chest rising and falling as the past poured through her.

Gilly was quiet for a long time, allowing Sansa the space to process everything she was feeling.  She reached across and touched her friend’s arm in comfort. 

Sansa looked at her hand and covered it with her own, her soul barren and lonely.  “The memory of Ygritte doesn’t bother me, and neither does Jon’s love for her.  But…”

“The memory of the Dragon Queen does?”  Gilly supplied.

“I’ve had to accept it, and I don’t deny that she was beautiful.”  She shook her head, “I just can’t reconcile the man I know now, with who she was.”  

“Do you love him Sansa?”    

“I want to,” she stopped herself hearing her own foolishness.  “It would be very easy for me to.”  

Her friend nodded her empathetic heart tender during their exchange, “I didn’t love Sam immediately.”  She smiled, “He grew into me slowly.  When we were going to be separated I knew the roots were too embedded and there was no possibility of digging them out.”  

“I don’t mean to complain,” Sansa said breathy, shaking away her emotion.  “I am luckier than most have been.”  Jon is a gentle man and I am safe and content.  I have everything I have ever needed.”  

Gilly leaned forward, raising her eyebrows she looked at Sansa knowingly, “The war is over my lady.  Now is the time to think about what you want.”

Like a cold wind on her bare skin, Sansa was defenseless against the memory of that question.

_“What do you want that you do not have?”_

  When he had ridden back into Winterfell’s gates, a black tower against the blanket of white destruction, how eagerly she had opened her arms. 

“I’ve tried to be smart Sansa.” He had whispered into the crook of her neck. 

“Have you?” had been her muffled reply.  The joy of his homecoming tainted as her eyes had risen from behind his shoulder, and fell into the face of the Dragon Queen. 

Strong emotion stirred in her belly as she thought about this man and his gentle eyes.  She had practiced wearing a mask for so many years, untouched by the changes around her, and he had seen her anyway.  The rhythm of their life was so sweet.  The eager dynamic between her and Jon had been building slowly, reconstructing her heart and renaming her soul.

Her stomach swooped as the weight of the realization fell, heady and terrifying.  She had married him out of duty, but here she sat, miles away from a home she’d vowed never to leave again.  For him. 

Looking back up at Gilly, Sansa remained silent.  Knowing any more words she could offer would be utterly useless.   

#

In the light snow, he had allowed himself freedom in her embrace, not allowing his brain any opportunity for the usual shame or guilt.  Despite the newness, he had sensed their mutual pull. Their mouths wrapped in a shy duet that had eased his conscious albeit only slightly.              

Their boots had touched, as his hands roamed over her, the tempo escalating as Jon had eventually pushed his fingers through her hair. 

That had embarrassed her, and she had blushed and fumbled, mumbling something about the cold.   Even though she’d been the one to pull away, his body was not discouraged.  The voice of her eyes sang to him a different song, new life blossoming in the spaces between them.

Blinking, he stared at the high canopy billowing over him and the empty bed.  The fire was lit, the flames casting shadows over the walls, but it wasn’t the room that warmed him.  The memory of kissing Sansa burned through his mind, his previous reasons not enough to satiate the frenzied ache pulsating under his skin. 

Coming to the edge of the bed he sat up, pulling his hair out of his eyes.   He’d returned to his room after a quiet dinner with Sam and Gilly, hoping she’d left some note to explain her absence.  It was unlike Sansa to be discourteous.   

He stared at the door, wavering between giving her space and smothering her in attention.   The feelings inside of his chest knotted together, knowing what he wanted. 

When he entered the corridor, it was nearly silent.  The only sounds were the winds outside and the faint sound of voices and the bustle of preparation that drifted up the stairs.  Making his way through the hallways, he spoke to a maid and then turned back toward Sansa’s room.   

Jon nodded to the familiar face, the scones casting shadows across the halls, “Good evening Ser.”

The middle aged man nodded his normal pleasant tone vague and hollow. “My lord.”  He took a breath than narrowed his eyes.  “Is your room not across the hall?”

He shouldn’t, but Jon blushed crimson then stared at the guard with hard eyes.  “And can a man not see his wife without the approval of his soldiers?”

The man shifted his shoulders.  “She’s not feeling in the mood for visitors.”

The fluster dissolved, replaced with sharp answer, “I am not a visitor.”

“Forgive me, my lord but I knocked on the door and checked on her myself.  She assured me of her health and then asked me to remain here, turning all others away.”

Jon felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.  “It’s not your place to enter Lady Stark’s chambers and offer her anything.”

The man looked down on Jon, eyes narrowed. “I serve Lady Sansa as I serve you my lord.  I was only following her command.”

“Move aside soldier, you are relieved of your watch since I am here now.  I will speak no more of this tonight.”

Making his way into the room Jon’s heart pained.  She had heard the door and called out.  “Ser Selle?”

Jon’s flesh ignited at the knight’s name on her lips.  “It’s me,” he said as he came near to her.   

Sansa stood by the fire, her arms hugging her chest.  Her red hair spilled down over her beautiful blue robe.  She wiped her face, putting away her tears, “Jon.”   

The relief and panic in her voice were mixed in a beautiful desperation that mirrored his.  He came close to her, standing behind her shoulders. 

Eyes cast away from him, she shuddered, “I’m sorry I didn’t come to dinner.”

He shuffled his feet, “It doesn’t matter.  Are you well?”  

She nodded confident, “I will be, there are just so many faces from the past.”  Her graceful neck turned, the tears in her eyes meeting the care in his.  In her body she felt him everywhere, and all of the confusion of yesterday came over her again as she watched his stormy eyes.  The ancient book in Winterfell’s library, full of stories of Targaryen heroes floated through her mind.  Her lips turned slightly; breathing out a huff of air she offered him her outstretched hand. 

“Will you dance with me?”  

The whisper of her tone struck him as he stepped forward, “Why?”

“Do you really need an answer to that question?”

He looked down at himself, “I’m not dressed for it.”

Sansa smiled, “Such an excuse will not be enough to stop your need for practice.”  She held out her hands to him.     

Leading them to the center of the room, she instructed him on how to move his feet.  The need to apologize for his awkwardness made Sansa smile, but she remained focused trying to help him overcome his blunders.  Jon felt himself relax, his hand at her waist, his eyes on their feet.    

They continued, Sansa determined that his gracefulness with his sword would easily translate to dancing.  The steps weren’t unfamiliar to him, but he wasn’t a very good student.  Still, he would endure this everyday just for the excuse to hold her body nearer to his.

He observed her, her posture and the closed expression on her face.  Remembering her sad words when he first entered the room, he pulled her flush against him.   

Observing him, she felt her body respond.  Her eyes looked down, her cheeks blushed pink.  “Lord Tyrion came to see me a few days ago.”

The confession brought Jon’s gray eyes to hers, his face reeling from the impact of her words.  Many times she had wondered if he’d learned of Tyrion’s visit, if a maidservant had been disloyal to their lady.  But the truth of her secret was in his eyes, and she knew this was the first time he was learning of it.  

Jon’s breath was short, his voice clipped, “What did he want Sansa?”  

She looked down, “Oh Jon…” 

He softened, running his knuckles down her cheek, recognizing his sharpness, “Tell me.”

A warm flush fluttered in her chest.  “He came to warn us.  He says there are still enemies out there that would like to see our families end.” She swallowed, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.  I came out on the parapet to tell you that morning do you remember?”  When he nodded she continued, “But we started talking and you made me feel…”  Her lips parted and she sucked in a quick breath, “I didn’t want to bring up anymore darkness.”

Reaching up Sansa touched his bearded face, her features reliving their kiss that morning, “Please forgive me Jon.”   

The eyes that watched him were weighted down with the world, and he could see the fear that lay behind the waves.  Before he had a chance to speak there was a knock at the door.    

Untangling himself from her, he went and let the servants in.  Moving to follow him, Sansa watched as the tub was carried in, followed by maids with buckets of steaming water.  They were quick and efficient, and gone before she had a chance to respond. 

“I thought you might want to bathe before tomorrow.”

Tilting her head, she smiled, “That was very kind.” He tried to stop it but the red tint of his skin betrayed him, and he smiled like a spring boy at her soothing praise.

Sansa noticed immediately, “Are you blushing?”

He put his hands under her elbows, “When you missed dinner I knew something was wrong.”  

“And you thought a bath would help?”  Despite the pit in her stomach, she couldn’t help smiling.

He congratulated himself on being right.  “I know how fond you are of cleanliness.”

Her eyes traveled over him, “You could use a few lessons in that department, you don’t bathe nearly enough.”

 “I could come in with you.”

The air from the room was sucked out at his words.  Her smile faded as the irises of his eyes focused on her, his shoulders drawing in a long steady breath, truly considering his own suggestion. 

His chest rose and fell so quickly he felt his brain orally remind his lungs to breathe.  His wayward hands, laid casually on her elbows, now felt like the tip of flame against her.  

Casting her eyes down, they fell on his chest. “Why?”

“I want to be close to you.”

The color of his eyes grew darker as she looked back up to him.  “But before you said…”

Cutting her off his hands moved to her back, “I know what I said, but this is what I want.”

“Are you in earnest?”

Waiting a beat, his eyes blinked at her, “Would you call me a fool if I was?”

Now it was her turn to remember how to draw breath.  “No.”

“No?”  He sounded too disappointed.

“No, I mean yes...” she laughed in her nerves.  “I would not call you foolish.  And I would have you join me- if that is what _you_ want.”

His fingers traced her cheek bone, finding his answer very easily. “That is what I want.”

“And what about Tyrion’s warning?”  

He shook his head, “Let’s not think about that tonight.”

She bit her lip, “Then we should make haste then before the water cools.”

Coming out of her grip he shuffled backwards, “Yes of course.”  

They both came and stood near the water that still sat steaming in front of the large hearth and fire.  Jon looked awkwardly at Sansa as his hands reached up to pull the laces of his jerkin. 

Sansa’s eyes went wide and she turned around, “You get in first.”

Keeping her back toward him the whole time, Jon felt completely clumsy.  Was he some summer maid that this should cause his body such anxiety?  Sansa was his wife.  _His._  The thoughts that had plagued him for months bubbled to the surface again.  Pulling off his shirt, his chest flushed. 

When she heard him slip into the water she turned slightly and made sure his back was facing her. 

“Please shut your eyes.” She whispered to him, knowing he would.  He was honorable and he was good. There was not a man in the seven kingdoms that was like him.

When Sansa’s feet dipped in the water the images that filled his mind were red.  Jon had to physically fight off the urge to look over her.  The water rippled and she got very still.  He let the feeling of her body settle before he dared opened them.

In a long slow moment Sansa saw his soft eyes look upon her.  The water was high, nearly to his shoulders and when he smiled at her, she felt herself flutter, the long forgotten way she used to when she was that little girl that believed in love. 

There it was, crystal clear like the eyes of the sea.  Flashes of memory, buried with confusing feelings, resurrected in her consciousness.  The rage and softness melted her heart, filling her with the undeniable truth. 

His throat bobbed as he looked her over, the pulse of her eyes making his own heart spike in sweet agony.  Her knees taut and to her chest, her eyes scared but brave, she still wore her shift over her body.  It bellowed in the water touching his knees. 

Compassion swept over him, seeing her, “My lady.”  His voice whispered as his hand dipped below the water and slid his fingers into hers.   

Her chest trembled, “I thought the water would be cold.”

This made a chuckle rumble in him; throwing his head back in his amusement he opened his arms. “Then come here to me.”

“Jon…”

“Do you not still wear your clothes?  There is no difference now than in our bed.”

A flash of red came across her features as she looked over him indicating his nakedness.

He chuckled, “I have retained my small clothes as well.”

“Well at least our underclothes will be clean.”

“Come to me Sansa, I want to hold you against my chest.”

Somehow she maneuvered her body to his, careful as to not hitch herself too close.  He did not seem to care and when he pulled her against him completely, she could fell the pleasant sigh that came from his lips all the way down to the tips of her toes.

They stayed like this, unmoving for a very long time.   When feelings would almost overwhelm him he’d turn his nose and buried it in her hair, inhaling the sweet scent of her, the scent of home.  In time he let his hands cover the length of her arms.  Again and again he glided his fingertips over her, undeterred by her scars; enjoying her skin.

As the water began to cool, she instructed him how to wash her hair.  Pulling the soap and oil through her locks, he was her servant.  She laughed and told him he was as good a hand maiden as he was a dancer, and discharged him immediately.

When it was his turn, she massaged his scalp expertly, soaking and scrubbing until he was as fresh and fancy as a prince. 

They laughed at themselves again, when a servant came in dropping fresh linens at the door, her eyes looked at them strangely, fully covered in the water, smallclothes dripping of oil and soap. 

When she left Jon attempted to rinse the soap off of Sansa and squeeze it out of her hair.  He felt her eyes grow serious.  He leaned forward his breathing quickened in his chest, “Why were you crying before?”  

She turned her body, and lay back against his chest, “I dreamt of Arya last night.”   

Waiting a few moments before he spoke back, he put his nose in her hair, “I dream of her often too.”

Despite her fluster Sansa relished in his warmth, and turned her palms over in his.  In their bed at Winterfell, she had grown so accustomed to his hands.  Tracing the lines of his palms she had come to memorize all his scars, extending from his wrist to his elbow.  Sometimes in the darkness she would ask him if remembered where they all had come from. 

Now, in this strange house, filled with unfamiliar faces and southern memories she hung onto him, as if his touch was the only thing to tether her to reality.  Grateful tears welled in her eyes that he belonged to her, in whatever way she could have him.

“We were in the Great Hall and she was angry with me. Though she didn’t look like herself, I knew it was her.  Dreams are so strange.” She breathed in, “Father was there too dressed in his leather…” Her voice got quieter, wavering in a whisper.  “And that bald fat frog faced man was there too.”

Pain ripped across his chest, but he remained silent as his hold around her fingers tightened.  “What man?”

“Lord Janos Slynt, Lord of Harrenhal,” Sansa mocked even while she shuddered.  “In my dream he threw father down, just like the day on the steps of Baelor’s Sept when he pushed father to his knees for Ser Ilyn to behead.” 

“In my dream Arya wanted me to save him, but I couldn’t.  Just like that day in King’s Landing.”

Jon let her words sink into him, trying to picture her as a young girl, standing in front of the Great Sept.  Moving slightly he held his breath, “Do you know what happened to Lord Janos?”

“I know he was sent to the Wall, after Lord Tyrion was named Hand of the King.  I never did think about him except in my prayers.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Arya had her list and I had my dreams.”  She chuckled a little at the naiveté of her youth.  “I used to pray for a hero to take that monster from this earth.”

An intense rush covered his body, like the wind that swept up from a dragon’s wing.  The memories of the past, dark and terrifying put them together again, strangely linking their paths home.  From the moment they had left Winterfell their journeys had led them back to each other.  The power of such a predetermined course moved him.  His heart thumped, as the thought, unbridled and pleasing wove through his blood. 

She felt his movement, her body stiffening as his legs tightened around her.  She pulled off his chest and turned slightly in his embrace, shadows dancing against his lips.  Wanting to touch the streaks of her tears he restrained and touched her forehead with his, “Fear is not our enemy.” 

The blue sea of her eyes pulled up a shield of steel.  “I’m not afraid, Jon.  Not anymore.  Not of anything Old Nan used to tell us in her stories.  Those creatures were real just as she said, but I’ve met the real monsters, and I survived.”

“And your tears?”

“In my dreams, we are all together, and there is hope for life and love.  At least until it is over.”

“Jon?”  Her voice was nearly silent and he stilled his hands so he didn’t miss any of her words.  “I don’t want to have to add your name to the volume of lost Targaryen heroes in Winterfell’s library.”

Brow furrowed he shook his head, “Silly woman.  The oil must have soaked into your brain.  I am not a hero like those men.”

Her mouth became a firm line as she looked at him, “You are to me.” 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The danger that has lurked in the shadows comes forward into the light. Old friends and former allies return, causing Jon and Sansa to question people's loyalties.

It was strange; neither of them could deny it, as they pulled themselves from the cool water.  The air hummed with an invisible weight, which fell heavier with each skim of her finger and the touch of his eyes.  Together, soaking in their smallclothes, wrapped against each other was impulsive; especially considering the new threat that loomed in the shadows.

And yet, as he watched her hold the dry linen out to him, he couldn’t care.

“Here,” she said.  The water still dripped to the floor from her saturated clothes.  “We need to change out of these wet things.”  

Taking hold of the offered fabric, Jon pulled her close to him.  His nose brushed hers in a gentle tease, “Go on.”

Sansa smiled and disappeared behind a changing screen.   His eyes fell to her hips as she walked away, a terrible sensation overtaking him as if the floor was falling out from under his feet.   

He allowed the maids and a few servants to come in, clearing away the buckets and the bathing tub.  Pulling off his wet undergarments, he put back on his breeches the odd sensation forgotten when she came back to him. 

Sansa’s cheeks were still flushed, her wet hair falling over her shoulders.  The rush of contentment spilled over her spreading warmth throughout her body.  Her lips parted, as she observed his shirtless appearance.

Jon watched her shoulders heave, up and down, his own heart joining the abnormal rhythm. Standing in front of her, he reached out and touched the ends of her hair. “Kissed by fire.”   

She looked at him, wanting him to see her clearly, the line of her sight fell against his hands and then whisked back up into his eyes.  The aching of her heart squelched under the determination of her promise, Sansa let out a deep breath.  “Will you stay tonight?”  

A groan of pleasure came from somewhere in his gut, mixing with the memory of her against him.  He tried to formulate a coherent response, but it came out only in one whispered word, “Sansa…”

He settled his hands on her body, on the curve of her shape where her hips met her waist.  Moving his thumb slowly, he grazed her hip bone lightly through her robe.  The longer he lingered, the more erratic the flick of his fingers became.  

The burst of euphoria that shot between them was the clash of the earth and the sun, melting into the horizon.  This time, he freed his lips and tasted the sweetness of her, ready to fall into her, instead of the abyss that called him.  She hummed beneath him, caught in the fire of his flame, the spring blooming around them after so many moons of winter.   

Before he lost himself completely, he pulled back.   The steady gaze of his eyes didn’t blink, “I want to, but I won’t.”  Retreating from her, he forcefully pulled the shirt back onto his body.    

The tightness in her chest, cut deeper than before, “Jon?” Her eyes darted after him as she followed him.   

He opened the door, his shoulders rising as he took in a deep breath of air.  Hand resting on the latch he halfway turned to her. 

Standing beside him, she looked over his features.  His face was taut, shoulders drawn in away from her.  The mask in his eyes frustrated her as she tried to navigate everything that had changed in her heart.

Instead of searching for words that she did not hold, she put her arms around his waist drawing his dejected body into hers. “The gray vest?” she said.  “The one embroidered with a wolf?”

“Yes,” he answered, his eyes not moving away from her soft lips.

“Wear it with your white shirt I mended.  It will match the dress I made for the wedding tomorrow.”

His hands flexed at his sides as he contemplated slamming the door and locking them inside her room.  With painful slowness, his fingers went up to her face and stroked her cheek.

“You will look very handsome tomorrow in your wedding clothes. Her hand reached up and touched his black curls, "You should wear your hair down.”    

The look on his face made her pull back, her lips pressing together, “Is it alright that I say that?”

Where her strange insecurity had come from he didn’t understand, nor was he going to try and determine the reason for it.  “No,” he shook his head. 

She knew he was teasing her, and she flushed crimson under his captivation.  All the tension shut down her body, her chest trembled. 

His mouth, a hard line, fell to pieces against hers.  Opening at his urging, she tasted him on her lips.  Body coming forward, her nose nuzzled his as her eyes shifted open again. 

He put his hands on either side of her, her back against the door frame, “I don’t have to leave yet.”

“Don’t leave at all,” she said again.  

“I can’t spend the night with you Sansa.”

“Why?  When that has been our way since we were married?”

He looked down between their bodies, acknowledging the legitimacy of her words, but raised his eyebrows.  

“Is it because of her?”

His hands fell, a cold feeling rising inside of him.  He tried to keep his voice level, “Do you really want to talk about her _now_?”

“Maybe, if it would make this easier for you.”

He took a step back, the truth hovering dangerously on the edge of his tongue, “She’s dead and there is nothing left to talk about.”

“I’m not a fool Jon,” she took a step towards him, out of her room.  “Secrets are dangerous.”

She thought about her mother and father, “Especially when we keep them from the people who love us most.”   

The tenor of her words caused his chest to ache, “What do you want me to say?  

“Sansa?” The familiar voice echoed of the high ceiling, interrupting their exchange.

Jon turned toward the man, immediately putting himself between them, “Lady Sansa to you.”  

Gendry eyed him carefully, noting the forceful step Jon took toward him.  He stepped back, and held up the raven’s scroll.  “I wanted to speak with you both.”

His shoulders came down as he pushed back his wet hair behind his ears.  “Why would we need to discuss your correspondence?”

“It’s from Winterfell.”  

Sansa’s voice caught as her hand fell on her husband’s shoulder, “Why do you have it?”

Gendry looked past Jon into Sansa’s eyes, “Ser Selle asked me to deliver to you immediately.”  

A guard came up behind the men, “My lord my lady?  Is my presence still required?”  

Jon gave a sharp nod and turned to Sansa easing her back into the room.  Careful to hide her behind the door, he lowered his voice, “Get dressed and come to my solar.”

When she had disappeared he shifted back to the guard. “When Lady Stark is ready escort her to me.”

With a forceful pull he took the raven’s scroll and swept past Gendry, ordering him over his shoulder, “Follow me.”  

#

“Does this remind you of anything Lady Stark?”

Tyrion’s voice was not unexpected but still Sansa’s eyes moved around the celebration wearily, searching for Jon. She felt Ser Selle shift unsteadily beside her. 

“Of course my lord, as you well know.”

“I’m sorry Sansa.  I find I must once again apologize for my wit.”  He looked down into his cup, “Although, it is very affected by the wine.”  

Sansa looked down on him and smirked, then moved her eyes back to the wedding guests.   “I’m not offended by your humor Lord Tyrion.  It is a welcome distraction.”

The somber tone of her voice cast his eyes upwards.  “I should instead comment on your beauty or compliment your dress, not once again allude to our...marriage.”   

“And I would thank you for compliments my lord.”

Tyrion looked at her hand, “Do you drink wine?”

She tried not to, but it made her laugh. “Now I do.”

The knight coughed into his hand, receiving a look from Tyrion.  He shifted his shoulders and raised his glass towards her as she raised hers towards him, sharing a genuine smile. 

The next moments passed in silence, both watching the wedding celebration continue.  Despite the respite she found in laughing with Tyrion, the southern charm of The Reach was not enough to erase the words she’d read from home.  Nothing held any meaning for her except the thought of Winterfell, the safety of her people and survival of her husband.

 _Jon._ Within hours of their reunion, he had sworn his allegiance to her.  This man that had fought for her, helping her defeat the monster that had almost destroyed her.  The one with stormy eyes and curious hands that made her heart flutter in her chest, pulling away the layers of the past.  The man that had loved Daenerys, and bent the knee to give up the North, was someone she feared she didn’t understand. Whoever that had been, was not the Jon she had come to know.

She shifted on her feet, remembering his reactions to the raven last night.  The walls between them had risen again, despite his constant support.  Burdened shoulders and broody far away eyes had replaced his gentleness immediately upon the identification of the threat.  Deep in the cavity of her chest, underneath the remnants of her defenses, Sansa’s heart longed to understand his.

“I have some news to share with you and the Lord of Winterfell.  It’s about our conversation a few days ago.”

She took a deep breath and a long drink of wine, letting its richness burn her throat.  Sansa’s eyes flitted to Ser Selle, whose brows smashed down over his eyes. “What news could that possibly be?” She kept her voice light.  

A great cheer erupted from the crowd and Tyrion found himself clapping and cheering along with the others, despite the fact that he did not share their excitement.  Nothing in his heart was against the new Lord of House Tarly, or his wilding wife.  The realm was his concern as it had been since he put an arrow in his lord father. Or was it himself?  He shook his small shoulders trying to convince himself it was the former. 

“The enemy we spoke about is using a familiar name.”

Jon came up alongside Sansa, seemingly out of nowhere, “Are you sure you’re not the enemy?”

Sansa breathed heavily, “Tomorrow the Lord of Winterfell and I will join you Lord Tyrion.  And remember I don’t trust anyone south of the Riverlands, and perhaps not even that far.”

He nodded, “And you are within your rights not to Lady Sansa.  Until tomorrow then, my lord, my lady.”

Jon motioned toward the knight with his head, also dismissing him.  His hand came around her waist.  Pulling her to him, he spoke in her ear. “His attention to you bothers me.”

Sansa blushed feeling his hot breath on her neck, “He has news about something that involves the realm.”

He brought his hand under her chin, bringing her eyes to his, “I didn’t mean Tyrion.”

She looked away, searching for Ser Selle among the wedding guests.  Her brows came down over her eyes unable to see his form among the people.  “He hardly ever speaks to me.  Sometimes he brings me lemoncakes.”

“And comforts you when you cry?”

Sansa turned and looked at him, “He reminds me of father.”

Jon let out a breath of air, his mind turning back to Lord Tyrion’s words, “The enemy has a familiar name?  That seems to line up with the raven from home.”  

“I know,” the line of her sight looked across the room at Tyrion.   

Sansa watched his mouth twitch feeling vulnerable under his steady gaze.  “Can we save these troubles for tomorrow and enjoy one last night of peace?”

He nodded, “I can agree to that for now.”

The storm in his stare made her insides quake, “For now.”

“Southern weddings are a strange thing,” he spoke with his eyes back toward the room.   

She couldn’t help but agree as she watched the guests celebrate and dance.  Swallowing, she pushed away all her other thoughts, “That is true, but this is not my first southern wedding.”

Jon bristled. The thought of her married to another man was unpleasant but married to a Lannister?  He grumbled in his discontent, “I had forgotten you had experience in such things.”

“Oh do not brood over that Jon.  You are the only man that I have ever wanted to marry,” her eyes sparkled at him before she changed the subject.  “I thought today would be different considering Gilly is of the freefolk and Sam took his vows in front of the weirwood tree when you joined the Watch?”

“Aye but the new gods and the faith of the seven are the gods here in the Reach.  Sam and Gilly are trying to honor the people here.  I believe it was one of the conditions of the approval of their marriage.”

Sansa shook her head, “All of that is nonsense.  It shouldn’t matter now, not after the Great War has been fought and won.”

Jon agreed, “Yes but some of these people didn’t see the army of the dead or the Night’s King.  It wouldn’t shock me to hear they believe it all nonsense.”

“They are fools then,” Sansa said and shook her head.    

“Would you have liked to take our vows in the Sept at Winterfell?”

“Why would I?”

“I remember as a girl you would go with your mother and pray to her gods.  Even Robb seemed more inclined to the Faith than the old gods.”

Sansa closed her eyes thinking about her mother and her brother.  How many years had it been since they’d been gone?  The emotion burned in her throat, no passage of time long enough to silence the ache. “I prayed that Robb would come to King’s Landing and rescue me.  Every day I went, faithfully.  No one ever came.”

“I’m not sorry we didn’t take our vows in the Sept.  I mean to live for the North and in memory of father and the old gods were his.  Honestly, I don’t know why I bothered to have it rebuilt, maybe to remember mother…” She said it absently and then turned toward him, “Does it bother you?”

He slid his hand into hers, intertwining their fingers.  “She was your mother Sansa.  You can do whatever you need to honor her.” 

Turning his head back to the party, he looked at the guests enjoying themselves, “How long does the celebrating last at one of these Southern affairs?”

She laughed at him, “It depends on how eager the bride and groom are for the next bit of the evening.”

A red flush covered him eyeing Sam and Gilly.  “I would say any minute now.”  There loving eyes completely fixated on one another. 

Sansa followed his stare a sigh escaping her lips.  “There is something strange and wonderful about the way love happens upon people.”

He heard the longing in her voice as she continued, remembering her questions yesterday.

  “I used to dream about such a love when I was a little girl.” 

He rubbed her fingers, “I remember.”

She looked away from him when she spoke, “But I am not the same girl I once was and besides…  You would know more about love than me Jon.”

Turning his head, he stared at her, trying to will her eyes to his.  “Love is not always beautiful like the songs.  In my experience anyway.”

She waited long moments before replying, her eyes staying on the bride and groom.  “For them it is.”

The exuberance of the celebration drowned out anymore words that he could offer.  He stayed close to Sansa all night, observing her behavior.  When the culmination of the evening came with the exit of Sam and Gilly, he took Sansa to his room.  The river of her eyes opened up to him, her shield dismantling as he pulled her into his bed.  It was just like at home, wrapped together in the safety of darkness, with one clear shift.  Past or present, the convergence of their hearts happened many years ago.  Despite the nature of the connection, it was done, irrevocable.  He was either a doomed or fated man, depending on the view of their condition.  And tonight, in the radiance of her eyes, the truth eclipsed the obscurity of hour in which everything between them had changed.  

#

When Tyrion finished the people in the room remained silent.  The howling of a new storm swirled above their heads, and someone sighed, their booted feet shifting uneasily against the floor. 

Jon’s shoulder rose, his elbows coming to his knees.  He put his head in his hands.

Beside him, Sansa leaned into him, putting their heads together.  “You remember what the raven said Jon.  This is the same news we had from Winterfell.”

Turning slightly, his gray eyes caught her blue ones, transporting them away from this room and the threats that once again threatened to tear them apart.  “Do you trust him?”

“My answer remains the same as when we first read these words.  I trust you.  I trust in Gendry’s devotion to Arya and I trust the North.”

Jon moved away and cleared his throat ready to speak.  Sansa grasped his hand, and whispered to him, “No.”

Swallowing, he tilted his lips to her ear, “If not me then who else Sansa?”

The eyes of the room all fell to the Lord and Lady of Winterfell.  Sansa looked at Jon and stood.  Crossing her arms she looked at Tyrion, “Do you think there really is another dragon?”

“The reports from Dorne say lands were destroyed with fire just like before.  If not a dragon then what else could it be?”

She narrowed her eyes, “Viserion was killed by the Night's King, Drogon died with Daenerys and we were all there when Rhaegal was killed at Winterfell.”  Her voice became hushed as she looked down at Jon, “Is it possible that we are mistaken?”

Standing beside her, a cloud covered his face.  He touched her elbow, “I never did see Drogon die, just Daenerys.  If it is one of the original three it has to be Drogon.”

“When you came for me in King’s Landing, after Arya killed Cersei, I remember the soldiers telling me it burned.”  Her eyes shifted to Sam, “Not to mention the sacking of the city in the uprisings since the defeat of the White Walkers.  What is there left of that city that someone would want to claim?”

Lord Tarly answered quietly, “It has been the seat of power in Westeros for hundreds of years.  Even if it is just a symbol now it still means something.”

Jon nodded in agreement, “If this person is my half brother or an impostor it doesn’t matter.  He must be stopped, just like all the mad conquerors that came before him.” His stare pinned Tyrion to his seat. 

The small man stood, “As I remember during the Great War we both fought on the side of that conqueror.” 

Jon’s nostrils flared and took a step forward, “Are we still on the same side?”

“Of course we are!”

Sansa subtly squeezed Jon’s palm and addressed the room, “We cannot do this alone.”

Sam looked toward Gilly, and then back to his friends. “The Reach will support this fight.”   

Gendry moved into the group from his place against the wall his eyes on Sansa, “The Stormlands will fight with you.” 

Sansa looked back to Jon, the sea and the storm clashing together.  He smiled sadly and came to her, hands at her waist.  She put her hand up into his beard, whispering to him, “If not _us_ then who Jon?”      

Moving past her he addressed the room, “The North will lead the fight against this foreign invader.”

Tyrion coughed, “The North?  With the nature of the threat we need to move before the Northern Army can arrive.”

Sansa pushed back her shoulders, “It’s not an army, not anymore at least, but loyal men who will support us.”

“Regardless of size my lady, they can’t make it here in time.”

Sansa smiled, “Lord Tyrion we received a raven two evenings ago confirming their position just east of here.  It will be just a few days before they arrive.”

The pair watched him carefully as his surprise turned to relief, “That is very good news.  My uncle is bringing the Lannister forces closer as well.”

Jon nodded, leaning forward he put his hands against the smooth wood of the table, “Then let’s get to work.”  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear faithful readers, thank you for being on this journey with me. I read all your comments and appreciate all the love. I try to post quickly, but want it to be quality so sorry this update has taken longer than normal! <3 It's all coming to a beautiful ending soon. Can't wait to share the next chapter with you. xoxo


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once King of the North
> 
> Now heir of the realm entire
> 
> Once the sword in the darkness
> 
> A mix of ice and of fire…
> 
> A northern wolf and hidden dragon
> 
> Nothing sweeter to imagine
> 
> A bursting tale of deep desire,
> 
> This their song of ice and fire…

In the bustle of activity, and with the arrival of the Northern forces the Lord and Lady of Winterfell were busy from dawn until dusk.  Sansa spent her days taking care of the soldiers needs and helping Gilly organize the rations for the extra people at the castle.  Once again, Jon found himself in the center of everything.  During the day he sat with the other leaders, listening to the reports that were steadily coming in, making plans and training.  Even in the evenings, after the meal was completed, he was called upon by many lords and ladies. 

Some were simple curious about this bastard turned king turned Targaryen.   Others were fellow soldiers looking to final reunite with the leader that had led the realm through the long night.  Inevitably, stories of Daenerys would surface and Jon would be forced to relive her death and sacrifices to the eager listeners. 

Sansa bore it all with her usual demeanor, but Jon was less subtle.  Long, deep stares from across the room, was his immediate response to such requests.  His eyes begged for Sansa’s approval the disgrace still evident there, even if she was the only one who could see it.  And despite whatever he held from her, she would smile back into his mysterious gray eyes.  The strange conqueror was long dead, and she refused to let her separate them again.     

Only when the castle slept and the corridors were quiet would Jon come to Sansa’s solar. Sometimes she would wake to find his arms around her, nose buried between the braid and her neck.   Most often she would find him in the morning, still dressed, slumped over a chair close to the fire.  However he came to her she accepted him, committed to the promise she had made.   

Sansa kneaded the back of her neck, the pressure of the situation keeping her body in tight knots.  Bringing her eyes level with the table, she looked over the scrolls.  The afternoon had faded away and she still hadn’t made any more progress on how to complete her current task.

Since the meeting of the ruling lords, the inevitable large attack hadn’t happened.  The reports were steadily coming in, but this Aegon, if it was truly him, was like a shadow striking in the darkness.  Burning as he went, he avoided the large holdfasts, instead falling upon the small villages of common people.  All were confident that if he could be located and even if and when he took King’s Landing, the danger would be minimal.  Most the continent fought together on the side of peace, who else was there to stand beside this invader?

When Tyrion had gone to the Eyrie, he had told Sansa it had been his intention to make peace with the new Lord of the Vale.  Sweet Robin may still be young, but he had, unfortunately for Tyrion, remembered “the little man.”

Because Tyrion had been unsuccessful insuring the help of her cousin, the task had fallen to Sansa.  Even before Jon had known of the threat she had been sending raven after raven trying to gain more support for their cause.  It had been over a month and still there was not a whisper from the young man who ruled the east.  

Standing, she walked nearer to the window a vision of Winterfell emerging from the secret places of her heart.  The hopeful future she and Jon had planned before their visit was hazy, the longing for home growing as each new day passed.  A vision of gray eyed children danced through mind, only interrupted by Ser Selle’s knock on the door.

“Your husband my lady,” the knight opened the door. 

Jon marched in past him, casting a hard glare behind him.  He looked toward Sansa, “Can I interrupt you?”  He turned back to the door, barring it before she even had a chance to answer.  His gray eyes had been extra stormy leading up to this conflict, and today they thundered, lined in black.   

 Sansa nodded a cold premonition moving through her, “What is it?”

Still dressed in his black leather with Longclaw strapped to his hip he pulled off his gloves.  Putting them aside, his eyes darted around the room, “Our scouts have confirmed that he is in King’s Landing.” 

Sansa shifted her feet, looking toward the chairs but ultimately settled on the edge of her bed, patting the space beside her. 

He swayed gently forward and back before his hands went to his waist.  Untying his belt he laid Longclaw aside and came and sat down next to his wife. 

When he was close to her, Sansa felt the tension ease slightly.  They hadn’t really talked since the night of the wedding, each busy with their different roles amid the mayhem of events. 

Jon fiddled with his fingers, as Sansa looked over his features noticing a new bruise near his temple.  With light fingers she grazed over the mark, “We knew it was coming.”  

He sucked in a breath, his cheeks darkening.   His own hand came up, pulling hers away from his cheek he held on to her fingers.  

She nodded biting her lip.  “Is there more?”

Tracing her knuckles he kept his eyes from her, “I’ve also received a message.”  It was a moment before he continued, “From the person claiming to be my brother.”

It took a moment for her to digest the news.  “What does he want from you?”

Jon felt the shake move inside his chest, “To meet with me, without a fight.   He says there is a question he wants to ask me.”

Sansa’s toes curled in her boots, her free hand covering Jon’s.  The pain that washed over her stole the color from her face.  The immediate fear filled the void, an urgent desire to flee itched under her tepid skin.  She looked back to her husband’s eyes, they were fixed away from her, engrossed in the swell of the fire.  The words came out hushed, “What will we do?”   

He was quick in his response, “I will act to protect the realm, the North, you Sansa.”

The blue eyes filled in her emotion, “And who will protect you?”

“It has to be kept from the others, it has to be in such a way that I can get to him without risking anyone else’s life.”

She looked down over his leather, the steady rise and fall of his chest disconcerting considering what he was suggesting.  Now wasn’t the time to argue with him, “When we make camp outside of King’s Landing, we can have Ser Selle help us.”

His eyes floated back to her face, “We? You don’t think you are coming with us?”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed, “I am coming with _you.”_

There was silence in her declaration and Jon’s face hardened in her uncompromising resolution.  “Would you be so foolish?”

The accusation cut, filling her with indignation, she took her hand from his, “Would you?”

“You cannot think that I would allow you anywhere near the fighting or that place ever again.  I will never forget how I found you, nearly dead, bloodied and beaten…” His voice faded away, the memory stuck in his chest.

Sansa stood, her fists tightening at her hips, “Do you know why I have endured Jon?  After all that has happened to me, do you still not understand?”

He came forward to her, meeting her eyes, “For Winterfell, for your father’s house and for the North.”

“Yes, for all of those reasons… Do you know why I live?”  The whisper of her voice cracked.  

His brow furrowed, “Are they not the same?”

“No…” her arms dropped a rush of weakness overtaking her limbs.    

Taking her hands, he lowered his voice, “What do you mean Sansa?”

“To endure is to continue, just simple existence.  Every day I move forward for the North, for father’s name just like you said.  And I will continue to do so as long as my body draws breath.”

She leaned into him, “But living?  That goes beyond being, but to laugh, to smile, after everything we’ve lost?” The whisper of her words drifted away her tone full of longing. 

A ghost of a smile traced his lips when he thought of her covered in mud, helping birth those pigs.  He could feel the rapid beat of her pulse under his hand.   

 “Do you know why I _live_ Jon?”

The blue of her eyes sang to him, like the taste of spring and the vision of a new dawn.  Every inch of his body felt her, and he could guess her words before she spoke.   

Grasping palms went against his chest, spreading out across his jerkin, “I listen to you talk of Daenerys, about her dragons and her bravery.  My stomach knots and rolls and yet I endure it because…”

She pulled away from him, her arms sweeping in front of her, “Father, mother, Robb, Arya, Bran and Rickon are gone.  The thought of you leaving this world is worse than everything that has come before.  And after everything between us, do you think I could just let you ride off to your death?” 

He shook his head, “Don’t say it Sansa.”

“And why shouldn’t I?”  Her voice deepened.

 “I don’t deserve it.  Not after everything I’ve done.” His arms came out in front of him, “I won’t yield.”

 The quake swept through her whole body, “You’ve already made your choice then.”  Her voice dropped a beat and then continued.  “He said to remind you what happens to Starks when they remain in the South too long.”   

“Who is _he_?”  His voice grew flat, as he leaned in closer. “Do you mean Tyrion?”

“Yes, the hand to _your_ queen.”

“Your husband,” his voice was low.

She shuddered, her eyes wide, “You are my husband!”

“Am I?”  

Standing close to each other their chests heaved.  The sweet air of the room that came with Sansa’s declaration was sucked out, replaced with that familiar sizzle.  Her whole being rejected his words, a strong wave of heat flashing over her body.

Jon’s breath was short, his voice clipped, “You can’t come with me.”  

She met his eyes, “So I am to just stand by and let another Targaryen take you away?”   

A great sigh came from Jon’s whole body.  He approached her slowly, reaching his hands out towards her. 

The sting built behind her eyes as she flinched away when he tried to touch her.  Looking down through a slanted gaze she tried to harden herself from him, the only wolf that remained in her pack, the only person she’d ever truly wanted. 

“Don’t you understand?  If you die I’d survive, but I would cease to live.”

Her eyes flashed and he had strange sense nostalgia at the set of her features.   It was a very familiar scene, in a tent, camped out in the mountains before they retook Winterfell.  Quite suddenly he felt her declaration that day, mirrored in the eyes that pleaded with him now. He pulled away, a sharp pain, knocking him back.  

Face white and hands shaking he looked over her.  The same emotions he’d felt that night poured through him now.  Hearing her voice in his head, a sinking feeling filled his stomach.  _I’m not going back there alive. Do you understand me?_  

“I have to protect you.” The renewed commitment fell between them breaking the tension that had erupted. 

Sansa’s face twisted, fighting back against a heavy emotion.  “You can’t protect me Jon.  Not if you sacrifice yourself.”  Her voice shook, for the first time she imagined him never coming home. 

“It’s my duty Sansa.”

“It is my duty too!  You don’t have to do this alone.”

The flash of ugly memories overwhelmed him, whispers of the past cementing his position.

 _You know nothing Jon Snow._  

And if that was enough, visions of silver hair and blood danced through his mind convincing him to stay his course.  “I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.  It has to be this way.”   

“How can you be so sure this is the right thing?  It is most likely some kind of trap and we’ll both end up dead anyway.”  

“I have to try.”

“Just don’t make any final decisions yet.  I am still waiting to hear from the Vale.  With them by our side that is five strong houses against this enemy.” 

“And the dragon?”

“What does the dragon have to do with you?  Do you mean to defeat it alone?”  His eyes darted away so she continued, “It’s unlikely that it is real, just another story carried across the wind to make us cower.”

“That’s true,” he faintly conceded.  “The Baratheon forces volunteered to go ahead and set up camp, but it will be a few more days before everything is organized for all of us to follow them.  For now I won’t make any plans to meet with him, and you will agree not to make plans to come near the fighting.”

Her arms crossed about her chest, her mouth set in a tight line, “There is so much more that needs to be said.”  

“I know that.”

Holding his eyes, she let out a breath.  Finally, she let her arms drop and took a step toward him, “I’ll not forget the first time you kissed me.  Not ever.  No one has ever touched me like that.”

The blood pulsed through him, leaving him breathless.  His throat made a noise and he shook his head, but his eyes stayed on her as with each determined step she came closer to him.

“Do you remember?”

His nod was shaky, “You told me we were two parts of Winterfell.”

“Yes,” she nodded.  “That was the first night I questioned your past.”

He tilted his head, his hands reaching for her body.  With a gentle tug he pulled her hips against him. Looking down where their bodies were connected, he kept his eyes from her, “Sam told me they sing songs about us.”

Laying her hands against his chest she could feel the rhythm of his heart thump under her palms.  She let one of her hands travel the length of his face, tracing his scars.  It came to rest in his black beard.  She eyed his hands as the fiddled with the material of her dress, “I know what I said when we got married, but I believe that we can be beautiful too.  Maybe not like a song, but close.”

As if he was being hung over a ledge, his limbs responded, his whole body suspended somewhere between the earth and the sky.  The sides of his mouth twitched, “I’m a Targaryen Sansa, in name and _deed.”_  

The sun reflected the sea of her eyes, free of any walls that would hold the waves back now, “And what does that matter anymore?  I promised to love you, as you are, the best I could.  And I would love you Jon, if you would just let me.” 

The gray afternoon was dying, but dawn was surely coming.  With a sharp movement, he brought her hard to his chest.  At the touch of her lips his body disengaged and fell over the ledge.  Her own body responded, her muscles loosening against him.  Nothing would ever be the same again.

Like the sweet breath of the wind that swept over the snows of Winterfell, was his whisper against Sansa’s lips, “And what of my promises to you?”

#

The moon and the stars were completely hidden under winter’s incessant stay.  The people refused to let the gloom that hovered over Horn Hill thwart them from their intended course.  The houses that were present, and other loyal forces of the realm all prepared together to make their way from the Reach and into the capital of the country.  Once again Westeros had become united behind a common cause.

Before the threat, the Tarlys had planned a banquet in honor of the Starks.  There was not much resistant to still holding what was supposed to be a farewell celebration.  Under the present circumstances it was more meager than originally planned and the Starks were not returning to Winterfell.  Still, the Reach gave their very best to honor the leaders that had once again been chosen.  The evening was meant to lighten the burden of what was to come, complete with a feast and dancing.   

Sitting at the long table, Sam to his left, Jon watched the people celebrate at the feast, his eyes floating toward the door anxiously awaiting his wife.  He took a deep gulp of the air and let it out in a huff.  Looking down at the meat on his plate his stomach grumbled, but it wasn’t food that would satisfy the need. 

The quandaries of his situation had grown ever complicated as the threat had been unveiled.  Jon wasn’t convinced it was Aegon, but the words that had been on the raven’s scroll were hard to ignore.  And perhaps even more proof was the strange circumstances that had brought him the message in the first place. 

Finding it sealed it his room, lying on top of his gray vest, had left him fully convinced something unnatural was at work.  Staring at the words, his past actions blotted and wrapped in ink had left a chill in his chest that had never fully dissipated.   

A brother, a long since told murdered child, miraculously alive.  Who was this shadow and what did he want with Jon? His eyes flickered to the newest arrivals and faces known and unknown.  Perhaps the enemy already walked among them.

Just then there was a commotion at the door and Jon looked up, his whole torso angling toward the noise.  His ability to breathe taken away the moment his eyes brushed against her.  

Many people turned to greet Lady Stark as she made her entrance into the hall.  The blue material of her dress fell gently on her slight body, its color casting a shimmer from the touch of candlelight.  The red of her hair was darker in the shadows of the evening, but still stood out boldly against her furs.  Its waves were tied loosely in her traditional braid, and lay across one of her shoulders. The eyes of Catelyn Stark’s daughter were strong and her head high, as people whispered of her beauty and her history.  She was all graciousness and honor, a pink smile on her lips, greeting people with her grace and decorum.  Still, Jon saw how she kept herself guarded, her eyes sweeping the room for him.

Swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat, he stood to greet her.  When she took the steps to the high table and stood in front of him, he observed the details of her dress. 

He could see the blue of the silk was the river, in honor of her Tully mother.  The fur that proudly sat across her shoulders was as white as the snow that covered the ground.  Jon’s mouth fell slack as he saw the direwolf of House Stark that clasped the fur against her chest.  Unhurried, he reached out, letting his fingers graze over the strong medal. 

“Do you like it?”

The sigil that stood for her father’s house was the same, the lone wolf’s mouth open ready to seize its enemies.  Except…

Its head was encased with red, dull at first then as bright as blood as it went out from its body.  He let his thumb graze over it again and again.  Finally his eyes looked back to hers, full of an agony that was anything but painful. 

“You will not be the last Targaryen in this world and I will not be the last Stark.  This newest conflict will not be our last.  We will be the song of Ice and _fire_.”

Taking her in his arms, Jon kissed her, oblivious to everyone else in the room.  The current overflowed, like a swollen river after a storm.  It was a long time before he pulled away, the hall growing quiet at the display. 

Sansa's blush matched the sigil.  Leaving his hands on her, he cradled her face.  “You’ve given them more reasons to sing.”   

Mouth open she stared at the storm in his eyes, “Will you hear me sing?”  

The red crept from the base of his neck, filling his face in a youthful blush.  “Soon, sweet girl.”  He touched her features with his fingertips, “But for now,” his eyes darted quickly away.  “We are not done playing the great game just yet.” 

Following his line of sight her eyes fell on a group of men that she hadn’t seen in Horn Hill before this evening.  In center of the men, dressed in blue and covered in armor, was the pale face and whimpering eyes of Robin Arryn.  

Finally after months of no communication, he had shown himself. The breath left Sansa, her cousin’s eyes gaping at her from across the hall.  It did not surprise Jon that the reaction in her body was the opposite of the reaction of her face.  Emotions under control Sansa smiled warmly at Lord Arryn, as she let Jon lead her to her seat.

Sam stood and raised his glass of ale to the room. “Tonight, we will feast and dance in the presence of the Lord and Lady of Winterfell.  When I look to my right I see a man that I have turned to in the darkness of our times again and again.  Each time, his bravery and wisdom has led those who follow him into the light once again.  I see also a strong woman.  Her beauty could easily fool you, but I know her to be prudent with more wisdom than even her well remembered forbears.  Jon and I have always been friends, and I am happy to say that now the South, the West and the North will be allies once again.” He raised his glass in the direction of Lord Tyrion who nodded in acknowledgement.

“I am not very elegant or good with speeches, my lords and ladies, as you well know.  I do however know a lot of words…”  He chuckled at himself, the room enjoying the surprising jovial mood of their lord.  “And with these words I would like to thank the Lord of Winterfell and his beautiful wife for their leadership during these desperate times.  Though their decisions have not always been easy, or pleasant to all, they both have not made them without great care.” 

He turned to them, “My house is indebted to you and the sacrifices you have made.  We do not look on them lightly and we thank you.  And as we look to this next threat, I know we are all united behind you once again.  I raise my glass to Jon and Sansa, may the gods bless your union and your house for many days to come.” 

There was a loud rapture of noise as men stomped and ladies clapped.  Shouts and bellows of ‘here, here’ were heard descending around the room. 

Jon turned to Sansa, her radiant smile touched her eyes filling his heart.  If not for her, he would never be here.  The bravery of her choices overwhelmed him.  He acknowledged the exhalations of the room and turned and took his lady’s hand.  Nodding his head in her honor, he raised her hand to lips and kissed it, lingering over her while the room once again erupted.

Bending close to him she accepted his gratitude and put her lips to his ear.  She smiled coyly, the room oblivious to her actual words.  “Why is he here without sending any word?  And how did no one see him coming?” 

He turned into her, playing along.  “Let us hope he is here to champion our cause.”

#

It was well into the evening, when Robin approached the Lord and Lady of Winterfell.  Surrounded by other knights, their faces were open and seemed genuinely pleased to be among such company. 

Jon’s arm was casually at Sansa’s waist.  He tightened it, and then spoke to the young man and his guards, “The North welcomes you Lord Arryn.  Have you come to help fight against this foreign threat?”

The young lord was unimpressed, his beady eyes narrowing on Jon’s face. “I had thought to keep my men from this fight once again.  Lord Tyrion’s reminder that our army was the strongest force left only cementing my decision further.”

“And yet here you are,” Jon looked down on him.

“I’m here for my cousin,” he looked to Sansa.  “If the Stormlands stand behind Sansa Stark, so will I.  You must have all your former intendeds at your side.”  

“Never truly betrothed,” Sansa looked at Jon and then back to Robin, “That is a world that no longer exists.”  She shook her head, “Your support shouldn’t be just for me.”  

“And why not?”

Sansa opened her mouth to respond but Jon’s hard voice stopped her, “May I speak with you?”

Robin puffed out his chest, “We are speaking.”

“In private?”

“With my guards?”

Jon eyes roamed over the men, his arm released Sansa as he pulled them loosely behind his back, “If you require them.”

Sansa smiled at Robin, hiding the flinch of her head expertly.  As she watched them walk away, she bit her lip.

A few moments went by before she felt his familiar presence soothe the fluttering in her stomach.

“It’s late,” the knight’s voice spoke from beside her.

“Haven’t you enjoyed the celebration?”

“What are we celebrating exactly?” 

“Earlier today the Baratheon forces left to make camp for all us to follow.  Soon we will ride to meet them, once again a country in unity.”  

Selle swallowed his voice low, “If we are all unified, what is Jon doing?”

Sansa raised her eyebrows, “Jon?”

The knight shifted his shoulders, “Forgive me my lady, I must be just as exhausted as you.”

Her head tipped to the side as she looked over him, “Either that or the ale.  I don’t know what _Jon_ is doing but I am retiring to my room for the evening.”   

Ser Selle nodded, waving his hand to usher her ahead of him.  Sansa turned back and spoke over her shoulder, “Find me a maid ser knight.  There is something else I require before my head hits the pillow.”

#

When the conversation was done, Jon had returned to the feast to find Sansa gone.  He flexed his soon to be bruised hands, content enough that the Vale was not a threat to Sansa or the North. 

Now he walked the large corridors, the wine and ale mixing in his body and stirring his blood in a different way.   The candles and sconces were dull, ushering in the inevitable night.  The noise of the celebration still drifted over the halls, an intense longing aching in his chest.  A thousand visions danced through his mind, a mix of shades of copper that tasted like the sunset.    

Standing outside her door was that accursed knight that had left the party with her.  “She’s bathing.”

Jon felt his body burn; it was his own fault for not dealing with the knight’s inexcusable brashness earlier.  Not waiting for Selle to say anything else, Jon turned ready to go back downstairs.  He waited a beat hearing her voice floating under the door.  It wasn’t a song he’d heard before, the lyrics and tone somber, but… The depth of her voice drew him in, causing the need to percolate from his heart into his skin.

“She is singing about you.”

Jon’s eyes jumped to the knight, “What?”

“That song,” Ser Selle continued.  “That is the one the minstrels sing about you two; the wolf that loves the secret dragon.”

He stood gaping at the soldier, the words of Sansa’s song calling to him.  His hands went to his hips and then rubbed his face in earnest, trying to ease the furnace inside of him. 

Jon stared straight ahead his back facing her door, unable to move his feet, the tangled river winding through his blood. 

The knight shifted his feet and looked at him sternly, “We are to go to King’s Landing?”

Jon nodded, “Aye.”

“And your brother is there?  The one who Lord Tyrion wants to keep off the throne?”

“Yes.”

The knight looked at him, his features softening, “What are you waiting for Jon?”  

Hearing his name from the knight’s lips, Jon felt a strange ache burn in his chest.  The silent war raged on, but he shook his head, condemning himself to a life in the shadows.  And then Sansa’s voice grew louder, her song destroying the last defense in his heart:  

Once King of the North

Now heir of the realm entire

Once the sword in the darkness

A mix of ice and of fire…

The door was open before his mind had any chance of thinking through his actions.  He came through the door just as swiftly, barring it as soon as he entered, mostly to keep himself from escaping. 

When Sansa saw him, his heaving shoulders and silent form; a flush of adrenaline tingled through her body.  Her heart ached as she sang the last lines of the song from the warm water of the bath:

A northern wolf and hidden dragon

Nothing sweeter to imagine

A bursting tale of deep desire,

This their song of ice and fire…

His body was physically shaking, and from across the room, Sansa felt whatever inhibitions he had harbored, crumble into obscurity.   

Leaving the darkness behind her, she stood the water trickling off her skin.  Greeting the dawn, she smiled and stepped out of the bath.  “Jon.”

Completeness resonated in his chest at the quality of her voice.  Eyes down on the stone of the castle floor, he turned his body to her. 

The shifting of his boots was only accompanied by the crackle and pop of the large fire.  The ivory of her legs clear in his peripheral vision, the rush of blood hit his body like the waves that crash over the weary Grey Cliffs of the North.

Undeterred, she moved closer to him. The water marking a trail behind her feet was light against the stone.  Within arm’s reach of him she stopped looking down at her scarred body.

As her eyes touched the winding streams of her marks, the thought of their wedding night permeated her scars.  Pink laced her cheeks as she reached her hands out to touch him. 

Pulling him further into the room she whispered to him, “Let me help you.”

Slender hands grasped his, pulling off his gloves.  Her fingertips went against his chest, skillfully untying and unbuckling his leather. 

With the dismantling of each layer she rallied the courage to bring her eyes to his.  The storm absorbed the sea as she found he was already looking back at her.  The depth of his stare was a blissful agony, burning her with fire.  When they fell away, sweeping down across the length of her body his mouth opened, his irises turned from gray to black.  His throat made a guttural sound as his hands fell against her bare body, finding their way to her waist.

“Sansa…” his body twitched as his fingers moved up her sides.

She swallowed, his touch spreading the flame, “Lift up your arms.”

His lips parted slightly, as his hands moved off of her and came above him.  Pulling from the hem of shirt, she pushed it over his head and let it fall on the floor.  Her hands slid over the marble of his chest, sighing at the feeling of his skin under her palms. 

The scars on his chest made sense to her now, the trenches and wounds not unlike her own.  Tears burned her eyes at the beautiful miracle of his life, rising and falling into hers.  She looked back into his beloved face.    

Jon stepped forward, his eyes washing over her.  His hands went behind her head and pulled the pin that held her hair, spilling the red tresses over her shoulders.

A deep wave of anxiety rose within her as she fought against the emotion, “Help me be brave Jon.”

Strong arms came around her swiftly, desperately pinning her body to his chest.  His hands moved over her back, his head buried in the taste of her neck.  She was a river of lavender and sunset, sweetness and strength all merging into one sea.  With a sense of urgency, he picked her up and carried her to their bed.   

When he laid her down, she shuddered looking away from him.  He spoke to her gently, “Open your eyes.”  He kissed her mouth, lightly over and over again, whispering to her, “Look at me Sansa.” 

Her eyes fluttered, lashes sweeping against his cheeks.  His breath was so close, his smell consumed her.  Wood and fire, earth and…

Jon looked down, “Don’t close your eyes love.”

The sun shined in the depths of their awakened hearts, beating the same rhythm.  For the span of several moments, neither was present in their body alone but they became bound, each to the other.  Wrapped in the ballad, the ache of such affection was painful, the need dismantling any remembrance of duty. 

The timbre was slow and sweet.  Sharing blushes and quiet words, the glow built back into the forceful burn, emptying them of everything except each other.  

And in the darkness, as the night passed and the white snows fell, the song of their union culminated into a glorious crescendo.  It broke over them with a surge of intense satisfaction, the swell rippling away any remaining questions or hesitations. 

Afterwards, with their foreheads locked together, Jon’s eyes anchored Sansa to her present reality, as she relished in the safety of his arms. 

With their bodies still connected, she hummed into his chest, “Nothing sweeter to imagine.”

As words of her song floated over him, he thought about what tomorrow might bring.  He thought about a child with gray eyes, or one with auburn curls.

His lips twitched, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. 

And then the encore began.   

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing sweeter to imagine  
> This the tale of she wolf  
> and her secret dragon. 
> 
> It's all coming to an end soon friends. Thanks for sticking with me. <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything has centered now.   
> The spinning of the world halted.   
> If only for a moment.

The few snowflakes that had kissed the ground during the feast had become a blizzard.  Now a fresh layer of white covered the expanse of the soil.  The blanket was heavy, wrapping the night in a different hue.  Life, as it had been, was reborn under winter’s soft mantle. 

Inside the warmth of the solar, awareness slowly shifted back into her limbs.  Under her arms she could feel the touch of the sheets, their caress cold compared to Jon’s embrace.  The room was hazy, as if the winter gray had permeated the walls.  And the air tasted sweet, like snow and wind and trees. Somehow, miles away from the beloved granite walls, the feeling of home settled over the room.   

Turning onto her back, a sleepy groan floated up into the canopy.   Like the first warm wind of spring, a blush scattered across Sansa’s skin, images of Jon flooding through her now very conscious mind...  Rough, weathered hands against her waist, the scratch of his beard buried in the hollow of her neck, the design of his body, cascading over her, wave upon wave.  The careful touch had been purposefully slow, dismantling years of fear with tenderness.   With each breathtaking moment, the gray eyes had saved her from floating back into her nightmares.  Her hand shifted to the side of the bed reaching out but only grabbing an empty sheet.   

The flattened pillow and lingering warmth of a person filled the bed.  Blinking, she turned over and stretched out her legs, the familiarity of the fire comforting the dizziness that sparked through her head.  With a shaky motion, the copper hair fell behind her shoulders and arched toes curled into her feet.  From across the room, the whisper of her name called her body back from floating into a half awake sleep. 

The pull of the gray irises was absolute, like the Earth to the Sun. Everything was centered now, the spinning of the world suddenly halted.  No foreign invader or unknown threat could cause her to question the certainty in his stare.    

Positioned by the fire, Jon leaned forward.  Bare elbows rested against like knees, the chill of the room not a consideration in comparison to the fire inside him.  The erratic rise and fall of his chest, became more pronounced the longer their eyes remained unmoved, drowning in each other. 

Observing him Sansa bit her lip, a pool of warmth filling her belly.  “Are you sorry?”

Now it was his turn to color, the shade sweeping over him like a summer child. The corners of his mouth broke into a full smile as his eyes fell away looking down at the parchment he held.  The breadth of his shoulders rose and fell in a chuckle, “I am not.”

Trying to control the upturn of her lips, a puff of air escaped, “Are you laughing at me?” 

The sun spilled through the clouds of his eyes, “Yes.”

A small laugh fluttered free, as her eyes sparkled back at him, “Well stop,” the blankets ruffled against the bed.  “I am already embarrassed enough.”

Rubbing his hand over his beard, he took in a long breath of air.  His lips parted as his features went slack, the moment a strange mixture of heaviness and relief.  The pressure built in his chest, “Sansa?”  He waited a moment before he could finish, “I’m sorry I was so slow in keeping my promise.”    

The heat now radiated throughout her body as she found the courage to be completely candid, “Don’t be Jon.  It was as I always imagined it should be.”

If there were any coherent thoughts left, they scattered into pieces, and a new shade of crimson spread from his neck to his cheeks.   “That can’t be true.”

“It’s because I…” her voice faded away, the words stuck in her throat.  “But it was… Was I?” she licked her bottom lip. 

“You were radiant,” he whispered.  

Sucking in a rapid breath, her shoulders and eyebrows rose slightly, “It’s not yet morning.”  

For a short moment, Jon shut his eyes, the pull of her voice a powerful force.  When he looked back to her, his irises burned, flickering with the past, the long ago buried darkness emerging again.  The familiar pit, the knowledge that he was truly alone, threatened to spill from his lips.  The paper twisted and rolled in his fingers. 

Her eyes flickered down to his hands, “Please Jon. “Don’t do whatever it is you’re planning.”   

The tremble of her voice caused his limbs to jolt and he rose from his chair, coming to her in long fluid steps.  Sitting against the sheets, he pulled her forearm into weathered hands, stroking her scarred skin with his thumb.  “Let’s not argue about it again.”  

She looked down where his fingers made lazy circles against her flesh.  She pictured him just after the end of the fighting, on the day he’d returned to Winterfell.  His barely covered body sprayed with blood and ash, he’d walked through the gates and fallen into her arms. 

The smell of fire hung all over him, and his eyes....  The grays were far away and guarded, burdened just like now.  Pulling in a shaky breath her head fell to the side, trying to ease the tightness of his features, “Isn’t that what we do?”  

“Aye, but not now.”

Her eyes looked away a sad smile graced her lips, “I’m sure you don’t want me to say this, but because you’ve kept your promise, I am made different.”

He narrowed his eyes, “How do you mean?”

 A determination stirred in Sansa’s gut, his secrets a faint whisper compared to the rightness she felt now.  The blue of her eyes glistened like the river basking in a summer afternoon, “It’s not the torture that now fills my sight or what I feel in my body.  It’s as if I am Winterfell and you have reclaimed me.”

The sensation of falling overtook him, like he was hurtling through the air after being thrown from a horse.  His brows pinched together, as he reached up to touch her.  Grazing her jaw with his fingertips, he heard her confident whisper to him again from his memory. _“You are a Stark to me.”_

  “I know exactly what you mean.”

#

An incessant pounding, shaking of the door rattled Jon from his second sleep.  The morning had truly arrived now as he pulled himself away from his wife, making himself appropriate to open the door.  The clamor and shuffling of feet moved outside the door and he grabbed an unsheathed Longclaw in one swift motion. 

Sansa stood, pulling a robe over her body, “What has happened?”

Looking toward her, Jon shook his head and put his ear to the door.  Waiting a moment before the pounding started again.

“My lord!”

Sansa swallowed, “Tyrion.  It’s Tyrion.”

Jon opened the door, the chaos and noise of the hallway breaking the calm of the room in an instant.  Jon looked down into Tyrion’s features, very aware what his look communicated.

“He’s here?”

The small man shook his head, “Something is here.”

“Something?” Jon questioned him as he felt Sansa behind him.

“A shadow,” the small man’s voice gasped. 

A screech filled Jon’s ears, instinctively pulling his eyes upward.  He looked at Tyrion’s wide eyes and shaking shoulders then turned to Sansa. 

Her features went white as her mouth fell open, “How can it be?”  

The fear that had haunted him every night and in the hours of day burned. 

Just like the dragon fire in his memory. 

 

#

Had they been at home, they would have stayed abed.  They would have let the morning drift and wane into the hazy afternoon, each wrapped against the other.  Perhaps they would have ordered food and eaten against the furs never stepping foot in the Great Hall.  Sansa would have blushed, and her blue eyes would have warmed Jon.  And he would have swum in them, over and over again, bringing sighs and sweet words from her lips. 

Jon lips twitched as he shifted his feet against the stone floor.  His shoulders resettled, his leather protested as he moved, his eyes scanning the skies.  The air in the turret should be cold, but he felt nothing.  He shook his shoulders and turned back to the gathering of people.  The images and sounds from his memories flashed through him, a strange mixture of past and present.   

He listened to muted conversations around him carefully observing and noting the varying opinions and ideas, constantly weighing and measuring options.  The Baratheon forces were only hours ahead of them, headed toward King’s Landing.  Everything was being readied now for the other armies to leave immediately, to offer support, or if the worst had happened, collected whatever was left in the ashes.    

The gray eyes scanned the papers strewn across the smooth wood of the table, and floated up into the porcelain face.  Her eyes were dull here, careful and guarded under the present circumstances.  Sansa sat shoulders back, delicate hands clasped in front of her, body shifting to one side, no indication of the chaos that surrounded them.  Absently, she raised her thumb up to her lips and padded them gently, her eyebrows pressed tightly together then the blue eyes floated up to his stare. 

A transformation took place, her finger falling away as her body straightened in her chair.  The careful look that she’d plastered on her face momentarily faltered as the corners of her mouth perked up, the sunrise falling over her features. 

The setting and the situation were suspended in the space between their separated bodies.  That they had been two entities seemed impossible now, only hours removed from their union.  The two pieces of Winterfell had finally been grafted together, stone by stone, rebuilding a family from the ashes.  His palms went flat against the table, his mind transported with one secret glance of her eyes.  Even across the room he could feel the warmth that radiated from her, a slow ember that now blazed.  

Jon had not expected her to be so soft and yielding, her gentle curiosity surprising.  He remembered her body and her hair, splayed against the linen, striking a bold contrast of white and red. 

In almost the same moment the nightmare that had pulled him from sleep came rushing back to him.  He saw her glorious tresses spread against the pillows, and then they swiftly changed to blood, her blood, lingering and falling through his fingers.  The picture of her breathless body morphed into a lifeless one in his mind. 

Jon’s eyes moved away, his dream cementing any chance that he would yield from his previous position.  This morning she had been wrong.  He hadn’t been the one to repair anyone.  Everything had irrevocable changed that day at Castle Black.   Defiantly packing his things and speaking of going south had truly been his desire.  One glance at her and he’d felt it, all his plans shifting in one moment.  He hadn’t understood it then, not the depth of what had happened to him, but he wasn’t about to be foolish with her life now.  

Sansa looked across the table, drawn into Jon’s stare.  As always, the gray clouds were reflected there merging together.  She saw his body twist toward Tyrion, listening to the final plans for departure. 

“We shouldn’t be fooled by the lack of an attack.  The beast was sent here to warn us, make no mistake.”

“As you would surely know,” Kiran Reed spoke next to Jon, who arrived with the Northern contingent at the beginning of this threat.

Jon held up his hand, eyes piercing his friend, “We are all still on the same side, just like before.”

Sansa shifted again, observing the familiar guarded look in Jon’s eyes.  She looked between the master at arms and her husband, noting something passing between them.    

Another voice spoke to the room, “Is there any chance the Dragon Queen survived?”

“No,” Jon’s voice was hard.  “I watched her die with my own eyes.”

“Then where did this dragon come from?”

Sam shifted beside Jon and looked out over the faces, “I read a book once about Dragonstone.  It was thought, by some, that there were dragon eggs hidden somewhere there.  Maybe,” he shrugged his shoulders.  “Someone found them.”

Tyrion straightened his shoulders, “Well that is excellent news but where it came from isn’t what concerns me.”  He took a long drink from a chalice in front of him and then looked toward Jon, “Is there anything else that needs to be said before we chase?”

Jon rubbed his chin as he looked away from Kiran and back to Tyrion, “The journey must be made quickly.  The scouts sent out will ride back and meet us, but we can’t afford to approach slowly.  Without winter the trip would take a fortnight.  We don’t have the time or the resources to support such an exposition.”

Clearing his throat, he put his hands together, “We must take only what we need and leave behind anything that could slow down the journey.”

Sansa’s eyes went round and a cold chill swept over her.  With a small shake of her head she implored him. 

His face remained stoic, but a muscle in his jaw jerked as his eyes flitted away. 

She sucked in a deep breath of air, the pulse beating stronger in her neck.  Regardless that he wasn’t looking at her, she continued to shake her head. 

“Lord Arryn?” Jon addressed the young wiry man. 

He puffed out his little chest, “Yes?”

“I would like to commission you, some of your loyal guard, and my knight from the Riverlands to stay behind with Lady Stark and Lady Tarly in the safety of Horn Hill.”  His eyes looked at the others in the room, “My lords you can appoint some of your own men to stay behind with your loved ones, or send them back to your homes.”  He looked at Ser Selle, “If things should go badly in King’s Landing, I will have my men lead the party north into the safety of Winterfell.”

Dark shadows flickered across the room as the hush settled in Sansa’s chest.  The curious eyes fell to her, waiting for her answer, despite the fact the question was not for her. 

Robin looked between Jon and Sansa and then back to Jon, “You would have me sit out this fight?”

“I would have you preserve my wife and the Stark family.  He turned and looked toward his wife as he made the last statement, “If we are unsuccessful, Winterfell is the safest place to be.”

Sansa stood her chest heaving, ready to speak.  Quickly, Jon moved to her, putting his hand against her abdomen.  A collective gasp flittered through the occupants of the room as he spread his fingers out over her dress.   

Jon’s eyes now spoke to her as he nodded, “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”  

Her brow furrowed a deep torrent of waves alive in her own eyes.  Taking a deep breath of air, she swallowed it.  She didn’t look to her right or her left for there was no longer anyone left to advise her.  Instead she slid her fingers over his, where they spread across her abdomen.  Eyes cast down; she nodded without offering an audible word of protest. 

#

Jon looked out over the bundled forms of men and beast that made their out into winter.  This storm wasn’t exactly the weather that made for traveling with armies easy, even decimated ones.  The winds picked up as fresh snow continued to fall.  Sam kissed Gilly, and labored up atop his horse.  Next to him, her body shifted, pulling his mind back to his own goodbye.   

A shaky hand reached between them, severely disappointed when he grasped her glove and not her flesh.  Still, he turned her into him, pulling her against his chest.

He spoke into her eyes, “Just because I played the game does not mean I don’t want it to be real.”

Flat palms went up against his furs as she touched the sigils on his leather.  Her fingers followed the patterns of the wolf and dragon over and over again thinking about their song.  The bustle around them faded away, he the only person in her world.   

“Was it for a child?”

He flinched; his hands came to her waist, “No.”

Pink lips pressed together, “And yet you despise yourself for wanting me?”

There was a sinking feeling in his stomach, “That’s not… It’s more complicated than that.” 

A rapid blink of his eyes told her the truth she wanted to know, “I don’t think it is.”

“Sansa,” his voice was soft mixing with wind and snow.  His nosed grazed against her cheek, “I don’t want to part like this.”

Her shoulders drooped then straightened, the cold filling her with fierce tenacity, “Then stop putting things between us.”      

Wrapped in the snow their foreheads rested against each other, he moved, catching her lips in his.  The soft flesh pushed and danced together, their mouths pulling and opening in eager desperation.  The taste of each other transformed the present circumstances into something new, the memories of last night burning underneath their furs.    

He whispered over her mouth, her taste lingering in his mind, he caressed the side of her face.  “I’ve wanted you for as many nights as I can remember.  I know you could feel me, pressed up against you in the darkness, my flesh calling out to yours. So much was already stolen from you I despise myself for wanting to take more, especially considering our past. Every wall was to keep you safe.”

Sansa pulled back, moisture lining her eyes, “In your affections is the only place I’ve ever known true safety.”   

“There is nothing about my love that keeps people safe.”   

The pink lips fell slack as the neatly trimmed brows pressed together.  She licked her lips, her voice escaping in a breathy whisper, “Love?”

Jon took a step forward his hands coming up to hold her face. He looked down at her blinking eyes and sweet lips.  Taking a deep breath, he rubbed his knuckles on the side of porcelain features, “Something happened to me when I died.  I didn’t come back the same.”  He swallowed, “My dreams?”

She nodded, the memory of his calling for Daenerys still made her gut clench, “I remember.”

“In my dreams I didn’t just control the dragon.  I was the dragon.”

When her mouth opened to reply the sky was filled with a screech, over them, all around them, the people near them instinctively crouching low to the ground.   

Releasing her, he turned his eyes upward scanning the skies.  Gray mist and winter as far as the eye could see then…

A red flame burst forth from the clouds, spilling fire onto the snow covered earth.  Screams of terror and clashes of metal carried across the throng of men and animals. 

Wide eyes turned back to look at her, his leather and furs rising and falling in quick succession. 

From his horse several yards away Sam’s voice carried back to their small group, “Jon!”

Ser Selle came up alongside Sansa shielding her body, staring at the sky, “The Baratheon forces are out there without any help.  My lord you must make haste.”

“Go,” Sansa nodded in agreement even while the words choked in her throat.     

Jon gripped Longclaw, the tendons in his neck taut and pronounced.  The pulse beat in his throat as he wrenched himself away mounting his horse, steering him toward the mass of still moving people. 

“A hidden dragon,” Sansa whispered as he galloped away.  Standing next to an entourage of people her hand slid up her throat.   

Gilly came up beside her, “The placement of the fire is strange.”

“What do you mean?” Ser Selle responded to her statement.

“It’s probably just a trick of the eye but look,” her small hand pointed out in front of them.  “The fire is not on the men, but in front of them.”

Sansa blinked, trying to discern the truth in such a storm.  She closed her eyes listening for the sounds of burning death that she remembered from her nightmares.  There was terror and commotion but no suffering.

Gilly continued, “It’s as if the beast is clearing the path through the snow.”  

Without missing a beat Sansa stared at her friend’s face as her jaw clenched.  In one swift movement, she turned on her heel. 

“Ser Selle,” she called to her knight.  “Ready my horse.”

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The words of the raven's scroll spill secrets from the past. With the threat of the shadow still looming overhead, this past darkness may destroy everything before the fire has a chance.

The weeks that have stretched between their bodies is a river frozen over.  Underneath the numbness, its waters lap, teeming with life and sustenance.  Her skin is like that hardened surface, the only protection from what now seems an inevitable end.  This porcelain vase, precariously cradles her heart against the rising winter.

Despite the shouts and screams of so many who would keep her back, she ignored and defied all of them, chasing after him.  It was foolish to ever let him go away from her, his soft declarations now turning a tumult inside of her. 

Yet in her hand now, she grips the words he held that morning.  This paper, hard and cold in her gloves, is weathered from his touch.  In her mind she can see his fingers, rubbing over the words again and again.  Her eyes fall to the script, their meaning simple and when she reads it, every dark stare becomes clear.  Now that it’s tangible, and not just his veiled eyes, it tastes more like ashes than relief. 

Sansa swallowed, tucking her head inside her hood.  The memory of his burdened shoulders and knit brow all made sense to her now.  The torment had always been there, but she hadn’t understood the depth.  And now she rode to him, across the snow and against the blistering wind.  Closer as each day passed, to the place of final liberation or the place of death.

#

The world was white.

Winter had permeated every building and touched the streets with its heavy shroud.  The remaining viable portions of the city lay quiet.  People were not seen, commerce had ceased and a black shadow circled overhead.   

As he walked the empty streets up to Aegon’s Hill he kept his hand clinched on Longclaw.   The pulse beat in the base of his throat, mirroring the crunch of the snow under his boots. 

The throne room inside of the Red Keep was as Jon remembered, with one striking difference.  The throne sat empty, Cersei’s disdainful scowl wiped from her face by the youngest Stark sister.  And today, snowflakes fell from the ceiling, covering the room in winter. 

He looked up; trying to find the source of the snow, but the flakes were seemingly falling from the rafters.  A flutter around him, and the flap of a wing whooshed in his ear.  He whipped up his head hearing the screeching echoing off the high ceilings.  The noise was so close, like the dragon stood next to him, but the room was empty.  He spun around again, seeing a shadow of a man, limping toward him.

 “Father?” Jon’s voice harsh and high sounded strange in this place as it echoed off the floor.

The man stopped walking, his face obscured in dimness, “I stood right there once, where your feet walk.  There were so many choices before and behind me; the world changing from black to white and back again.”

 “Father… I don’t understand,” his voice sputtered a reply.

The man chuckled, “Why do you call me father when that is not my name?”

The dragon screeched louder, heat building under Jon’s skin, “Because you know _me_.  Tell me who I am?”

 “There are always two sides to every man, two faces.  Sometimes,” the man stepped into the light as the sigil on his leather was revealed.  “They have two names.”

The world around him began to turn, the room and the familiar face sucked into a torrent of howling wind and snow.  The cold permeated the heavy cloak, as the chill swept across his face.

“Jon?”

His eyes shot open, the cold ground under him and the snow on his face brought the sweet relief of reality back into his conscious.

 Sam’s crooked smile did not quite reach his eyes. “I’m sorry to wake you but...” he paused helping Jon to his feet. 

“We aren’t the only ones here.”

#

Inside the Kingswood the combined forces of the North, the West and the South set up camp together.  Their arrival now only a few hours old, brought the fires that billowed around the men as they rode on horseback closer to the walls on the side of the Mud Gate.  The journey had been strange; the words from the mysterious note mixing with the fire ahead of them had intensified his dreams. 

The biting cold made worse by his fatigue, Jon shifted on his horse looking ahead.  As the flags rippled in the wind he pulled in a deep breath a hard frown on his mouth.  

The white falcons against the blue banner whipped against the winter wind, quickly followed by the orange banners covered in pebbles.  Jon rode next to Sam and Tyrion, a contingent of loyal guard with them.  As the sigil met his eyes, his gloved hands tightened against the reins.     

He raised his voice to the group, “Welcome to King’s Landing.”  

A bundled form rode up in front of Jon, “House Arryn and Royce and what remains of the Vale have arrived to aide our allies of the North and South.”  He looked pointedly at Tyrion and then looked back to the other men beside him, “Your scouts are behaving as if we are a surprise.”

Jon narrowed his eyes, “So the Vale has marched down the King’s Road for weeks, and nearly preceded us in the capital?”  He noted the slight widening of the older man’s eyes and chuckled, “Your delayed responses to our ravens didn’t go unnoticed.  When your lord showed up at Horn Hill, he took some convincing, but he eventually told us you were not far behind him.”

“So we are not a surprise to _you_.” 

 Jon glanced back at a hooded figure, his voice fading, “No… Who is that?”

 The knight moved his hand, “He is from the Baratheon forces that rode out ahead of you.  They saw you arrive and came to offer a report.”  

The lords shifted and Jon looked at the man, “We have heard nothing from them since they left Horn Hill.  Is all well?”

The man looked up behind the hood, his eyes shifty.  “Would you have me give my account now my lord?”

Tyrion cleared his throat, “The other scouts will soon gather to make their reports as twilight approaches.”  

The knight from the Vale nodded, looking over the faces of the other lords, “And where is Lord Arryn?” 

Jon looked over to Sam, “The last we saw him he was in the Reach.”

“Days ago I rode ahead of my men, behind your lines to meet with him,” the knight shifted his head, looking down at Jon.  “We discussed the best way to bring our men close to the city, without alerting whatever threat that lies in there.  I find it hard to believe that he hasn’t come upon your camp yet.” 

The corner of his mouth twitched, and his shoulders shifted. “He hasn’t made his presence known.”

“That is strange considering your wife travels with him.”

A brittle wind floated over Jon’s face, as his stomach plummeted, a turbulent clash of sea and storm.  He felt the crescendo, a rising and falling, merging and ripping apart again.  Not unlike a song, he felt his heart swell, but he tempered himself, leaning back away from the knight. “Settle your men and camp along the east side of the city.  We will send some more provisions and explanation after we’ve heard the reports.”  Turning his horse, Jon shifted his eyes back to the hooded man, “Come and make your report soldier.”

The man rode toward Jon and the rest of the group.  Before they could move away he turned back to the knight, “Ser? Tell your men to make camp quickly and to take care.”

The knight narrowed his eyes, “From what?”

“The black shadow ser.  It comes out after dark.”

#

The sun spread its pink lashes across the horizon.  It sprayed the earth with fading light, which made winter sparkle under its gaze.  The camp was eerily quiet as the Lord of Winterfell and the others made their way back into the trees.  Dismounting his horse, Jon turned to his friend.

“Make sure everyone is assembled.  I want to hear of the ‘shadow’ but I must see to _this_ … first.”

“We will wait for you,” Sam nodded without a smile.

“If you hear shouting don’t send a guard.”  Jon caught the disapproving look thrown in his direction, but turned away.

Throwing open the flap of his tent Jon’s boots were frozen where he entered.  Molten red flushed over him as his hands clinched and released, over and over again until his eyes found what they sought.  Flying forward he whipped Robin out of his chair. “Did you not understand when I bloodied your face the first time?”  

The young lord’s hands hung limply at his sides, his face turned away.  “My lord, she planned to follow before you decided to leave and you know it.  Nothing I could have done would have stopped her.” 

He turned his face up to Jon, and pushed himself away, strong despite his lankiness, “And she promised me you would kill me if I laid a finger on her.”  His eyebrows rose, and his mouth twisted in a sardonic smile, “And strangely I believed her.” 

Jon sneered back at the smaller man, “Get out of my sight.” His hard eyes glared at Robin as he shook himself off and stalked out of the tent.  There was a shuffling of movement and quiet words exchanged.  Around him, the torches casted a shadowy glow, and then her silhouette appeared, obscuring the light. 

Time slowed, the coming of night darkening the tent further. At the base of his neck the pulse beat with rapid intensity, the sweat pooling under the heavy layers he wore. For several seconds she stood still, not making a move to enter the tent further.

“You know he’s right.”

Despite the freezing winter, her whisper ignited his entire being, and he dangled somewhere between blissful relief and heady agony.  Feeling her body move, his eyes closed, as he sucked in a deep breath of air.  Moments ticked by as he stood, waiting for his pulse to even out.  An erratic tingle hummed through his body, as his eyes fluttered open.

Across the tent, Sansa had settled herself next to a wooden table.  Wound in her braid, the cooper tresses delicately grazed the top of the white fur.  Her body was wrapped in the same dark blue dress, the one she’d worn the night of the feast at Horn Hill. Following his stare, she touched the clasp of the direwolf encased in blood, and then looked to him. 

Shining blue eyes traveled the length of his body, from his boots back into his eyes as her face fell into a soft smile, “Hello Jon.” 

 Taking a step further into the tent, he let out a shuttering breath.  It’s as if she’s a ghost, once again arriving at Castle Black, unexpected, but in an instant purpose centralized in his heart. He grit his teeth, “You shouldn’t be here.”    

Looking down, she wiped her palms across her skirts.  The atmosphere fell heavy on her, causing the joy of seeing him whole, grow stale in her chest.  Instead of buckling under the strain, she folded her hands neatly in front of her, and steadied herself. 

Slow feet moved forward, as she watched the rise and fall of his shoulders.  With a shaky hand, she pulled the raven’s scroll out of the folds of her dress, “I wish you had told me.”  

He raked his hand over his face.  “Where did you get that?”

Her eyes blinked and she swallowed, “You left it in my room.”

The memory her voice carried, called Jon’s body closer to her, “I told you when I left; everything I have ever done was to keep you safe.  That is what I am trying to do now, but you being here is making that extremely difficult.”

“I thought I was beginning to understand you and your motives.”  Her shoulders rose and fell as she looked back at the paper, “But this tells me I know nothing.” 

Tossing the parchment on the table, her eyes watched it roll slightly then cease, the terrible pain now spreading out from her chest.  “You knew it was a dragon didn’t you?”

“You should have stayed away from me Sansa.”

“Answer me,” her limbs sparked as she looked at his stormy eyes.

He nodded, “I should have known, and maybe I did.  I knew for sure _that…_ morning _.”_  

In the husk of his voice, the space between them filled with a palpable thirst that called her, close enough to touch him but his look was far away, hardened just like the ice that had frozen back over her skin.    

Sansa’s eyes floated down, as Jon tried to angle his body away from her, his own hands balling into fists.   

They were opposite elements, of that she was sure of now. Bringing a balance to her that she always craved, but never truly understood until now. “On the day we announced our betrothal you found me in the library.  Do you remember?”

His head bobbed, and tilted to the side, “You were crying.”

The corner of her mouth tipped, “I was reading Targaryen history and worrying over our future.” She brought her hands in front of her, slowly pulling off her black gloves and setting them aside.  Taking a strong step forward, she let her fingers glide over his forearm, “So many of those songs ended in tragedy.  Just like you and Daenerys…”   

 His head snapped up, eyes hard, “Sansa…”

She shook her head, squeezing his arm, “I came here for _you_ ,” she continued in a ferocious whisper.  “For whatever reason, you have kept the truth hidden from me.  And I choose to believe you wouldn’t have kept these details secret if you knew the danger was over, so I followed you.” 

Her eyes closed for a moment then her lashes fluttered open at the inhale of a deep breath, “I came to protect you or to help you.  I don’t know if I can or not, but I have to try.”

In a quick motion his hands went out, grasping her waist.  When he settled her against him, his eyelids grew heavy, his mouth parted.  Looking over her, his face pinched as he spoke in rushed fierceness, “No one can protect anyone.” 

“Oh Jon,” she leaned closer to him, her nose brushing against his.  “Won’t you ever trust me?”  

“They’re waiting for me,” he whispered, his hand hovering awkwardly against the fabric of her dress, white knuckles gripped the gray wool than pushed her from him. 

The muscles in her throat constricted as her gaze cast down.  The mocking tone was ripe in sharpness, “It’s just the end of the world… again.  You would think they could wait.”

#

The whole room knew that she’s defied him, and the shifting of the eyes when they both walk into the tent make him clench his teeth.  Purposefully, he moved toward the group, careful to keep his voice even, “As I’m sure _everyone_ knows now the Lord of the Vale has arrived to meet his army.  They sit camped on the other side of the city.”

Sansa felt the barb, laced with his anger.  She moved across the table from him, crossing her arms over her chest.

Jon made eye contact with each of the faces in the room then nodded, “A Baratheon soldier has come to tell us what lies ahead.”  He watched Ser Selle shift uneasily next to Sansa, “As there was no destruction along the Rose Road, I know we are all hopeful and curious to hear from him.”

Stepping forward Tyrion cleared his throat.  “Should we invite the young man in then?”

Jon nodded, the northern soldiers bringing in the man that had ridden from King’s Landing.

The man’s cloak was gray, and his face was chapped from wind and snow.  The cracks on his lips were dried with blood and his hands shook from the cold.  But his hood was pulled back now, and it was clear that he wasn’t a stranger.   

Ser Selle made a shift, just as Sansa’s mouth fell open in a light gasp. 

Leaning toward the man Jon stared mouth agape.  The blue eyes clear enough to see, but his features were marred by the elements.  He had to ask to be sure, “Gendry?”

Jon watched his eyes float up in the direction of Sansa, “I had to see you again.  I had to know you were alive.”  The last word was marred, mixed with the murmur of the others in the tent. 

Sansa eyes shifted to the side then settled on his face, her voice wavering almost like a question, “I live my lord.”

From his position across from them Jon’s eyes moved back from Gendry to Sansa.  His gut gnawed uncomfortably, “Why the deception?”

“I didn’t know if we could trust the men from the Vale.  Before I left, Lady Sansa had not heard from them.”  His eyes settled back toward the lady, “I just didn’t know if they were friends or enemies.”

“Robin is my cousin,” Sansa spoke back.  “He carried me safely here and has brought his army to support us.  I would remind everyone that this is not the first time he has come to our aid.”

Jon’s nostrils flared, but he nodded at the truth of what she spoke, “Tell us what you have come to say.”

He looked over at Jon, “When we arrived I wanted to go straight into the city, to kill the source of the fire.  We made camp that afternoon,” his brows furrowed as he closed his eyes to think.  “Two, or three days ago?  That night we formed and readied ourselves to enter the city.  We could hear the people’s screams from inside the gates.  They have to be starving in there, just like before.”

“Why didn’t you enter the city then?” Tyrion took a step forward.

“We tried m’lord, but as we came closer to the gates the shadow flew over head and set the field afire blocking our way.  Once the ash and flame die down, it comes back.  It doesn’t want us inside the walls.”

Jon tilted his head, while the other’s bodies shifted in the room, “It?  Did you see the dragon?”

“Yes and no. We can hear it screeching and see the fire from the clouds, but what else could it be?”

Jon leaned forward, “And it never came near you?”

“Not once.”  

Sansa shifted her body, noting Jon released the breath he held.  She looked back to the man that gave the report, “What does that mean?”

He faltered slightly, his brow furrowed as he looked over her shoulder, “I don’t know m’lady.  The screeching would get louder than quiet again, like a dog, being pulled back by a rope.”

Sansa looked toward Jon, arms crossed hard eyes on Lord Baratheon.  She took in a deep breath, “Why would it not attack?  Surely that’s unnatural?”

“It is what I saw m’lady.  A shadow and a fire but not one soldier has fallen.”

Jon’s stare narrowed on the man, “How many shadows?”

The space of the room froze, the occupants casting confused glances around the tent.  Jon stared hard at the man, “How many?”

With his brows mashed hard over his eyes he whispered his reply, “Just the one, I think my lord, but it was always dark, or the ash filled the sky.”

“And you were there at the gates just today?”

Gendry’s head nodded, “Night is coming and so will it.”

Jon looked toward his wife and then back to the other’s faces, “Go get some food and find a bed.  As we all must try and find some sleep.  If the beast comes we must be alert, and if not we must make our way toward the city.”

The bigger man swallowed, “Lady Sansa?  May I speak with you?” 

Looking at the reaction of other’s faces Jon cleared his throat, “Give us a few moments to finish here first.  And go eat.”

Gendry swallowed and nodded, casting one last look towards Sansa and then left the tent.

The other reports were made but the discussion was brief and stunted.  All of the faces reflected the news of an actual dragon, remembering the burning and terror of the last three.

“My lord,” Tyrion approached Jon as the others filed out.  “What should be said to the Vale?  If they approach the city from the east the beast may not be as forgiving as he has been to the Stags.”

Jon nodded, “Find Lord Arryn and explain what Storm’s End has told.  Send him and his men back to the Vale forces, he’s not needed here.”

Tyrion nodded and looked toward Sansa, “It is always good to see you well my lady.”

She smiled and nodded her head as he came forward to kiss her hand, but Jon shot him a look and he shuffled away, quickly, without touching her.

When the others had gone, Ser Selle shifted away from the couple, leaving them alone around the wooden table.

 The wind howled outside and the cold air made the material of the tent sway under its power. 

Jon stared with hard eyes across the table at Sansa, “What do you think?”

The skin above her eyes pinched, she shrugged her shoulders.  “It doesn’t make any sense.  Have we mobilized the continent to fight a shadow?  And if he wants you here, why won’t he let anyone inside?”

From his place near the flap of the tent, Ser Selle spoke directly, “Isn’t it obvious?  He wants _only_ Jon.”

“Yes,” she sighed rubbing her forehead.  “But who is _he_?”

The dream flushed through him, as he saw himself on the streets of King’s Landing, walking up Aegon’s Hill.  He backed away from Sansa, his feet jerked in quick steps.  He whispered softly reciting the words on the scroll, “Follow the flame.”

Hearing the words that she now read many times Sansa nodded, “He must be Aegon.  Who else would control the dragon?”

Ser Selle looked between the two, “What are we going to do?”

 “We can’t possible do anything until you’ve had some rest,” Sansa said looking over her husband.  

Jon shook his head, “ _We_ , will do nothing.”

She walked toward him, her eyes shifting around the small space.  From in front of him she reached out with her index finger, gliding it over his clinched fist. 

At her touch his hand relaxed a bit, and he took a step forward turning his fingers over to her caress. 

 Her heart beat in her ears as she looked up into his eyes, “Let me help you.”

Jon looked at her, her pink lips and warm cheeks.  The blue depths of her eyes was like the night she’d asked him to marry her, matching it with an eager ache that spread across his body.  The flick of her gentle light touch continued, but his head turned, sliding away from her hand. 

The pair stood staring at each other, the light from the torches flickering off the material of the tent.  Her eyes questioned his, as he retreated further into himself. 

“I’ll leave you now.” Selle’s words broke the cord that held the room taut. 

Sansa’s brows furrowed over her eyes staring hard at Jon. A catch tumbled in her chest as Selle’s footsteps padded away.

“No,” Jon cleared his throat.  “Take her to the inner most tent and don’t let her leave.  I don’t want her anywhere near the flame if the dragon comes.”

The knights hard eyes blinked at Jon and then turned back to Sansa. “Come my lady.”  

Facing him, her arms came out between them, shaking, “You can be angry, but I will not be kept under guard.”

Grabbing her wrists, he pulled her closer, his voice like a commander in battle, “Then I will be the one to restrain you.”

Jerking away, Sansa voice caught in her throat.  “You wouldn’t.”

“I would, if it would keep you alive.”

“I won’t stand by and watch you offer yourself up to die!”

Coming forward Jon swept her into him.  Without restraint he kissed her like the heat of battle hummed in his blood.  She clung to him, the material of her dress rubbing against his leather.   The feel of their connected bodies stoking the fire between them, “Please Sansa,” his desperate plea spilled over her partially opened mouth.  “Do what I ask.”

Pulling her eyes opened, she looked down between them, his strong grip securing her torso to his.  Head to the side she whispered fiercely fighting back emotion, “Regardless of what you did to her, this is not your fight alone.” 

“If I don’t go, this may never be over.”

Her answer came after a few moments of silence, the howling wind filling the tent with winter’s mournful song.  “But if you die Jon… It will be over.” 

“Not for you.”

Tear filled eyes floated up to his face.  Her features fell slack, “Do you still not understand?”

Stepping back, she pulled herself away from him, resettling her furs.  “Ser,” she addressed the knight but never took her eyes off her husband.  “I am ready to be escorted to my cage.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was never my intention to wait nearly two months for an update, but what can I say? I'm committed to writing to the best of my ability for you wonderful readers. I hope you enjoy this chapter! As always I love your comments and questions. Thank you for taking the journey with me.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A plan is set in motion to combat the shadow that lurks in King's Landing, but a voice from the past haunts the peace Sansa clings to. Will a life altering confession be enough to stop Jon from his covert mission or will what really happened beyond on the wall cement his fate for good?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same.”  
> ― George R.R. Martin

Across the fields and beyond the walls, in the heart of the once great city, the shadow stared up at the throne.  A wide grin fell on his face when he thought of what other names they called him: foreigner, fraud, and maybe soon, conqueror.  His whole body shook with anticipation, provoked to some euphoric state now that he could taste the revenge that was at hand. 

_Fire and blood._

Humming to himself he sat down on the steps, looking out across the cold throne room.  Westeros was his for the taking, and he salivated at the opportunity.  When the journey had started, he hadn’t thought about what happened after arriving on the shores.  With no one to stand against him, that had come so easily.  Never would he have imagined being here so quickly and having such power at his hands.

The letter to the other Targaryen had been an ostentatious idea, but not his alone.  He knew he wanted to meet with this member of his family just so he could look him in the eyes and confront the question about what happened beyond the wall.  As soon as he cowered and spoke the truth, he would burn him alive. 

 _“_ Stop dreaming, the sun is nearly set and you must rally to try again _.”_   The bald man spoke from somewhere beside him, “A time for hate will come, now is the time to show our hand.”    

Shaking violently the silver haired man stood up, “It is as if you have forgotten what he took away from us.”

Behind him, the round man came out of the shadows and looked up, “And it is as if you have forgotten what power he has given us.” 

 Across the Narrow Sea, as a boy he’d never imagined the journey that led him to this moment.  The ebb and flow of his support had come and then gone, but he’d been dealt this final chance.  If he could eliminate this last threat, then maybe, just maybe he could be who he was born to be. 

The time for games was over; it was time the real war had begun.

#

Though the emotion flashed hot under her skin, Sansa was poised when she made her exit.  Head high and hands neatly to her sides, she made a point to look at the soldiers in the eye, even greeting them with an attentive smile. 

“When we left Horn Hill you feared he may react this way,” Selle pointed out quietly.  “Give him time.”    

“In this circumstance ser I hoped to be wrong.”  Looking over the camp she readjusted her gloves, “The other matter we spoke about?”

The knight nodded, “It’s been taken care of.”  

Making his way in front of her, he motioned for her to follow.  Weaving in and out among the evening bustle of the camp, her mind fixed on Jon and the problem that lay somewhere behind those walls.  If fire rained down from overhead, there was nothing that could withstand such an onslaught of terror.  Flashes of memory made her stomach clinch as she thought about home, the last time she’d seen a dragon in Westeros.     

The thought of Winterfell made a desperate pit open inside of her.  She longed to see it again, but everything that home was, could never be enough now.  Not if she returned alone.

_“I don’t love you… not the way a husband should.”_

His words from the night she proposed flooded her memory as her hands balled into fists at the tufts at her skirts.  And what had she said to him?  That she was relieved?  That she didn’t care? 

Sidestepping a large pile of snow, Sansa continued following Selle through the tents.  Jon had been very direct when they married but things had changed.  Hadn’t they?  She thought about his soft gray eyes lingering on her body and the gentleness in which he’d embraced her under their furs.  Letting out a huff of heated breath, her cheeks reddened. 

She had prided herself on her politics and her ability to know people’s movements, but her emotions made the air around Jon hazy.  Buried deep within her scars she could hear Cersei’s mocking voice, her bit of ‘womanly wisdom’ still seeping into this new life she’d been given.

And life had been a gift, and Jon, gods help her, was the best part of it.  A southern son of a prince, hidden away and revealed, now married to the daughter of a betrayed northern lord. The symmetry that they created together was governed by nothing short of fate.  Just like a… 

Her breath caught, a jagged pain sliced through her chest, the truth murky trying to break through.

 _“_ There is nothing about my love that keeps people safe,”had been his whisper before he’d ridden after the flame. 

Her mind spun going further back, her heart hammering in her chest. “Don’t close your eyes love _,”_ he’d whispered as he lay over her, connecting their bodies for the first time.

And he’d dug his fingers into her hair, talking about the moment they’d reunited. Shirtless and breathless he had held her to him, “Gods you were beautiful,” he’d admitted with his eyes burning, writing harmonies into her soul.

That same night, in their bed upon their knees wrapped against each other, secrets spilling from his lips he’d practically begged her not to hate him…

_“Will you despise me one day Sansa?”_

Sansa stopped, blood rushing through her body, Jon’s words meaning something she couldn’t quite grasp.  Looking up all she could see was the tops of the trees, their layers blanketing the view of the night sky, just like her feelings muddied her reason.  For slow agonizing moments she didn’t move, letting every look and touch take center stage.  Trying to pinpoint the exact point in time when his eyes shifted, she shut out the noises of the evening.  Suddenly, a thousand miles from home, this mattered more than anything. 

Turning Selle looked back at Sansa, “What is it my lady?”

Tears pricked her eyes as she shook her head. The mission to help protect the North from yet another threat melted away into obscurity.  For a moment she thought her knees were going to give out, the inability to find the words making her breath stall.  _Oh gods..._ Cersei had been right.  The witch had been right about everything.     

Barreling out of a tent, at the exact moment, Gendry came upon them.  He wiped his mouth swallowing whatever was left of his hasty meal.

“I’m not as stupid as the rest of them,” he belted out, his voice winded as if he’d been running.

With her thoughts racing, Sansa was slow to react to such a scene.  His clothes were rumpled and his features were set wild and exhausted.  And just like at the meeting, she watched his eyes.  They looked in her direction, but stared beyond her. 

Turning toward him, Sansa noticed her loyal knight’s reaction, the tips of his mouth softened, but only slightly.  A humorous glint bubbled there, one she’d never seen before.  It was almost like his features became twenty years younger. 

No longer than a breath, it was there and then gone.  As his shoulders rose and fell, his words came out in the familiar measured tone.  “And?”

He looked hard at Selle’s face and then shivered pulling his furs tighter around him.  “And nothing I suppose.  I just thought that you should know.”

Sansa raised her eyebrows, her line of sight following Gendry’s path through the camp. “That was strange.” 

The ser nodded, “We knew each other before the Great War, long before he was named a true son of Robert Baratheon.” 

 “And you were friends?” She narrowed her eyes, her body leaning inward.  

The man grew quiet and rubbed his hands together, whispering back to his lady, “Yes.”

Sansa clasped her hands in front of her, her thumb rubbing the center of her palm.  “You are a mystery ser knight.”

The weathered brow descended over eyes, his mouth easing into a firm line, “What was it earlier that made you stop?”

The cold wind howled angrier against the night that slowly settled over the camp.  The warm glow of the braziers flashed and popped, lighting up the shadows of the winter wood.  Sansa felt the cold seep deep into her bones as she took a step closer to her friend, “Jon,” she despised the weakness of her voice.  “I need to see Jon.”  

#

It was truly a strange twist of fate that Tyrion Lannister found himself on the outside of King’s Landing.  After the events of the Great War, he had promised himself never again to be in such a position.  The decisions needed to make the realm stable were messy and he had just begun to accept his choices in a game he’d thought was over.  

The Lord and Lady of Winterfell made a formidable ally, and it was a relationship Tyrion wished he would have paid more attention to now.   Jon Snow was a contradiction, completely unlike his aunt and a mystery still.  He had thought him aloof and apolitical, but perhaps…

Long gone was the boy he’d met before the white walkers and winter, green and eager to join the watch.  And it was clear to see that the years that stretched from that memory to now had forged him into someone different, someone worthy of a crown. 

In his own way Tyrion had loved the Queen.  With a few others, he had mourned her passing when her final destruction had come at the hands of the enemy to the North.  And maybe, in some way, Jon Snow had cared for her.  Even if it was for a moment he must have felt something, but it was clear to him now that whatever had been was passed, blown away by a copper storm.   

What he hadn’t counted on was the way Jon cared for her, ardently reluctant as if he should still feel shame for such feelings.   When he’d kissed her at the feast at Horn Hill, Tyrion had felt odd watching, a seed of a memory floating into his thoughts.  The way the pair had moved together stood out to him as far back as Winterfell.  Even then, it was as if an invisible cord connected their bodies, their words and actions complementing each other in a strange song of fate. 

Weaving his way around the camp, he turned in the direction he needed to go.  The sun was completely gone now and if Gendry’s warning was accurate, a dragon could be upon them at any moment.

Stopping to speak to a knight, Tyrion was directed to the whereabouts of Lord Arryn. 

The guards outside the tent eyed him suspiciously, but stepped aside when the young lord gave his permission.  Lord Arryn was sitting at the table, glass of wine in his hand.  His stare turned cold when the small man walked into the dimly lit space.

“I told you when you came to the Eyrie all those months ago; I care nothing about whatever you have to say to me.”

Tyrion shifted to the side, “That is not all you said.”  Coming to the table he settled himself across from the surprisingly smug face.  Reaching for a mug, he poured himself some wine. 

The hard heated eyes looked up over his cup and stared at the small man, “And will you tell them?” 

Tyrion took a swig of the drink, “I haven’t, nor did I think too.  You did surprise me at Horn Hill, but if your feelings are what you claim, I suppose I should have expected it.”  He made a motion with his arm, “You also told me you would not come south and it didn’t concern you who sat on the iron throne, but that seems to have been untrue.”

Moving his plate aside, Robin pulled a raven’s scroll from under his plate, “Read this.”

Tyrion took the parchment and unrolled it in his small hands:

_To second in line for the throne-_

_I have a question for you, but it must be asked face to face._

_Bring the blade that bled her._

_Follow the flame._

_-A_

The paper trembled as he exhaled a breath.  He read the words again, aloud, unable to comprehend anything, “Bring the blade that bled her and follow the flame.”

Tyrion flinched, his whole back went straight and stiff.  It was several moments before he could speak.  He looked behind him, near the entrance of the tent and lowered his voice, “Where did you get this?”

“The knight.” 

Tyrion shook his head, his earlier foreboding about the strange man resting in his thoughts, “Why?” 

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it does you half wit,” Lannister made the statement without looking away.

“Since your time in the Eyrie you have known my true feelings about Sansa’s _husband_.”  He straightened his shoulders, “The whispers of his magical resurrection and his Targaryen blood have never made him popular with some ruling lords.  And now we learn that his tale from beyond the wall may not have been entirely accurate.” 

“Why should you care or anyone close to you?  There was no love between the Vale and the Queen.”

 “Of course you’re right which is why I said I would never march south.  My army survived one war to what?  Be offered up in the next?  The Vale should not have to die for some sibling rivalry.  Let them kill each other just like their ancestors.”  

The older man watched the Lord of the Vale, his shifty eyes and the sweat at his brow.  He tilted his head, “Why give this to me?”

A flash of something crossed his face and then it was gone, his youthfulness shining through, “I want her protected.”

Tyrion stood rolling up the parchment, shaking it in his hand, “My sister use to say that love makes us weak, but perhaps it makes us bolder than we should be.”

“Sansa has said your sister was a monster.”

“That’s true, but she knew how to lie.”

#

The thought of _her_ safe behind the walls of Winterfell kept Jon’s focus hardened on the task at hand.  Working with Sam and a few other lords, they had organized the men for the time being.  Every plan contingent on the dragon, they decided to move soldiers toward the city in a few hours, using the cloak of night.

The crunching of his boots in the snow stirred up the flurries around him.  All evening the men had given him a wide berth, the stony glare discouraging any questions that could be made.  Entering his tent, his face was red, and he whipped off his furs and gloves in a frenzy of sharp movements.  After pouring himself a mug of ale, he took a long swig letting the liquid burn his throat.  A vision of Sansa, wetting her lips and giggling stirred in his gut causing him to throw the mug toward a torch, sparking and sputtering the flame.  

“She doesn’t deserve your anger.” 

Head coming up, he drew Longclaw at the voice.  Jon’s face flushed, his nostrils flaring as he stared into Selle’s eyes.  “You’re lucky I don’t kill you.”

“And why would you do that, because I disobeyed your order?”  Selle watched Jon flex his shoulders and sheath his sword.  “She may not know why you truly don’t want her here, but everyone else does.”

He narrowed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, “And why is that?”

“How long have you loved her?”   

A molten pit dug at his insides, filling him with heat.  He took a step toward the knight, who stood eyebrows raised and hands against his waist.  He let out a forceful breath, allowing the emotion a chance to dissipate.  Looking away from the man’s eyes he pictured Sansa, curled up against the sheets, bare and soft in his arms.  More to himself than to the soldier he whispered, “Longer than I should have.”

Shaking his head he looked back up to the strange guard.  “I know what you and some of the men whisper about us.”  His voice grunted making a deep noise, “And you’re not wrong.  I am a Targaryen after all.”

The man moved forward, the creaking of his leather taut against his form.  His hands straightened his cuffs.  “Once you might have been right.”

Jon narrowed his eyes, “Rhaegar Targaryen was my father.  That makes me a Targaryen.  And for centuries the Targaryen did unnatural things.” 

“Lord Eddard had a ward that grew up at Winterfell, beside you boys and was much like a brother to Sansa.  Would it have been unlawful for him to marry Sansa, just because he was raised beside her?”

“That’s not the same thing.”

He cleared his throat, “She is your cousin, as Lord Stark’s ancestors were as well.” 

“Lord Stark,” Jon rubbed the nape of his neck, his eyes distant, marred with past storms.  “I always wanted him to be proud of me.”  He walked toward the table, found another horn mug and poured fresh ale. 

After taking a drink, he looked down into the cup his mouth twitching, “That’s how it started.”  His voice was low, and ached of the need for absolution.  “In the beginning I just wanted to protect her, keep one promise that I’d made.  That was the reason I wed her.”  He tilted his head back swallowing another long gulp, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It wasn’t until months later I realized what I truly was.”

The middle aged knight looked back to where Jon stood, his eyes brushing over his face. “Lord Eddard Stark was honorable and fierce when it came to protecting his pack.  He sacrificed much of his reputation for you, not to mention his wife’s good opinion.  And yet it was all for a lie.”

“You too would have died for your lies if it meant keeping those you love safe.”

Jon’s mouth fell into a hard line, “What do you know of it?”

“It is why I put the letter in your room.”  

Struggling for control, he maintained eye contact with the man. The fire popped in the small torch, flickering and sputtering just like his voice. “What do you mean?”

“I intercepted the raven at Horn Hill, and I put it in your room so you would have a chance to think about your lies.  And still you couldn’t bring yourself to tell her the truth.”

Pulling Longclaw from his belt, Jon’s lips pulled back as he barred his teeth, “On your knees.”

The knight blinked once and looked down at his hands. Pulling off his gloves he threw them aside.  Sweeping the heavy fur off his shoulders he slowly lowered himself down. 

Planting his feet wide, Jon stood over the man the tip of Longclaw at the base of his neck, “Name yourself and my enemy and I will end your life quickly.”

With labored breath the older man responded, “We all have reasons to misrepresent or distort the facts.”

The blade pressed harder on his neck, “Do you wish for a slow death?  Answer me!”

“Why did you convince the realm that you loved her?  Did it make it easier for you to pretend?” 

A hot pounding filled Jon’s ears.  Narrowing his gaze down the cold steel of his blade, he stared straight into the man’s face.  He swallowed, inching himself forward he watched Ser Selle grimace as Longclaw broke the skin. 

The knight gritted his teeth, straightening his shoulders, “And just like Lord Stark, I can’t help thinking that you had your reasons, to lie to us, even after the Dragon Queen was gone. A lie is a lie, but only evil depending on one’s own perspective.”

The man’s eyes softened his voice like the brush of red leaves that scattered the floor of the Godswood, “For many moons, I’ve wanted to tell you about my lie.”

In a quick motion, Jon moved the sword to the man’s gut, the sense of foreboding heady in his limbs, “Then name it,” his voice spat out quick and harsh. 

A strange look came over the man’s features as his hand reached up and palmed his face.  As it gripped the skin it pulled at the corners the mask sinking into his hand... 

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And hidden in the trees, beneath the shadowy light of the braziers, there was not just one wolf that watched the marriage take place that night, but there were two." - Not Like the Songs Chapter 3

As the magic fell away his chest emptied, his body like a frozen wasteland.  Muscles spasmed and locked and his posture tightened like a noose.  Just like the forceful wind that sweeps over the North, childhood laughs and adventures poured over him, carrying him to a time long passed.  It was the taste of snow and Old Nan’s cooking.  With the next gulp of air came the smell of the stalls of Winterfell, and the cherished voices of the dead.  Their eyes and their words were vivid colors of the winter’s sky, streaking across his life, resurrected in the gray eyes that held his.

The blood rushed to his chest, and the ability to breathe became futile.  He stumbled backward falling to his knees, sure that the cold earth was ready to swallow him whole, “What kind of trick is this?”

“It’s not a trick.”

The world around him quaked, years of pain pouring out.  His chest heaving searching for air, a hoarse whisper parted his lips, “My sister is dead.”

“Jon,” her own voice broke as her small shoulders trembled.

“It cannot be,” he rocked back on his heels.

The small face paled, as she transformed before his very eyes.  On her knees she slowly crawled toward him.  Moving directly in his line of sight, she pulled out a small sword and in a quick motion laid it at his feet, “Forgive me.”

Reaching out, he looked at the precious steel, the metal reflecting the flicker of the brazier’s light.  From the weapon he let his hand move up, touching the boiled leather that she wore.  He let his fingertips hover slightly over her arm, eyes sweeping into her features.  She appeared taller than the last time he’d seen her, but somewhere he knew it to be the illusion the oversized clothes had made.  Her gray eyes were round and wet, a collection of tears hovering just at the corners. Undoubtedly her face was changed, the youthful lightness now completely vacant in her stare.  Jon shivered, the reality of what this meant cut him to his core, shards of ice fragments digging into his pores. 

The words rattled out hushed and eager, “What was your first lesson?”

A flick of color came back to her skin, her tousled hair falling across her cheeks.  The storm disappeared into a familiar smirk, “Stick them with the pointy end.”

Leaning in, he grabbed her by the shoulder and with a swift motion wrapped her in strong arms.  Silent tears fell on his cheeks, clinging to the miracle he held.

They knelt holding each other, their breaths a mixture of laughs and grunts, Jon still unsure that this was real.

Casting his eyes up over her features, the memory of his and Sansa’s shared grief pulled him out of his shock.  Again, the situation momentarily overtook him, the joy not enough to pacify his questions. 

This time when he gripped her shoulders he shook her.  His eyes flickered all around, suddenly aware that men moved around with only a canvas between them.  “Gods Arya,” his voice whispered, deep and cool.  “She thinks you’re dead!”

Pulling back, he looked into her eyes, gray and stormy like his own.  “Why?”

Taking a deep breath she looked down.  “What’s happening now…? It’s my fault.”

“How could that be possible?” 

A spark lit in her eyes, buried beneath the layers of pretense, almost familiar. “I was there Jon.  I was there _that_ night.”

Releasing her, his mouth fell open, and his eyes narrowed almost accusatory.  There was no reason to ask what night she meant.  Only one night had been just as hidden as she was. “Not as yourself?”

“No, Missandei… but I didn’t kill her,” she added as quickly as she said the girl’s name. 

“I just took her face…after. Once we found out about your parents, I had my suspicions that you wouldn’t be safe for long.”  Her small shoulders rose and fell, “And that night… I was right.” 

He struggled for breath, “Did you put Longclaw in the pyre?”

She nodded her head, “I did everything I could to give you a chance.  I’m sorry I couldn’t get her alone and do it myself.  All I knew was you had to live, so I made Gendry believe whatever he needed to so he would tell everyone I was dead, then I’d be free to follow.”

He blinked, “And afterwards?  After it was done?  Why not come home with me, to Sansa, together?”

“I had to keep us safe.”  She shifted on her legs and stood up, “I followed this man,” her small hand pulled up the face he’d grown familiar with.  “He was some foreigner meeting with someone from Essos, but he was smarter than I realized and I never got close enough until I had to kill him.  I’m sorry Jon.”

He had risen beside her, his arms extended, voice louder, “Why keep it up then?”

The younger sibling swallowed.  “I’m more comfortable in the faces than I am as myself in some ways.”  She looked up into his eyes, the guilt mixed with the determination of her resolve.  “There were things I had to do.  Promises I had to keep, people I had to protect.  When the news about Sansa and Gendry reached me, I returned as fast as I could.”

She looked down her features pinched, “I stayed in the faces to understand, to help me see the truth behind their engagement.” 

A tingle spread under his skin, awareness sinking into his pores.  “It was you then?  You told the ruling lords she couldn’t have children.”

Watching her nod he felt his heart pulsate an uneven rhythm, “You took Winterfell away from her!”

“No, I was trying to protect her.  When I followed this man I knew that something was coming.  I didn’t know from where or how many years it would take but I knew we would be safer if we were together.”  Her eyes flashed, “I gave Winterfell back to her Jon.  Sansa wanted to marry Gendry as much as she wanted to marry the Imp and you know that!  She wanted _you.”_

His voice grew steely and quiet trying to squash the surge of hope that shot through him. “That’s not exactly how it happened.”

“Yes it is you dolt.”

The look on her face twisted slightly, “When I heard she was to marry Gendry I knew something must have happened.  In my travels home, I heard whispers of…” Her eyes darted around the tent trying to find the words.

Jon stared at her, clearing his throat, “Of Sansa and I?” 

Making a face she looked at him, “I hated it.”

A muscle in his jaw tightened, his eyes flashing, remembering his earlier confessions his face flushed scarlet, “I don’t know what I can say.”

Her face turned pale as she looked back at him.  “Shortly after I joined your guard you announced your engagement.  I was going to tell you then, but that night, after your announcement, you were eating in the Great Hall, heads put together, whispering...” The face returned, “Sansa looked so relieved, and it was the first time in weeks she wasn’t crying.”  She tried to stifle a groan, “You both were smiling, and I just didn’t want to disrupt your… happiness.”

“We would have been happier with you there.”

She took a deep breath, “I was there Jon.  I stood in the Godswood with Nymeria and watched you make your promises.  And after that I observed the pair you made, working together, meeting with the people together, and ruling _together_. I’ve had many…”

She breathed in deeply through her nose, “ _Feelings_ about it, but I think that at the very least, father would be proud of you both.  You made a brave decision for the good of the people, much like him.  And now, the North will never forget his name.”

He blinked remembering, “You told me to go to her.”

Arya looked down, her boot scraping across the ground.  Her eyes swept up and she shrugged her shoulders, “Well?”

“She’s not pregnant Arya.”

“I figured, but she will be one day?”  He eyes fell to the floor avoiding his, “Won’t she?”

His lips pressed together as he grimaced slightly, “Aye, if we can live through this.”

Small fingers scratched her cheek, “I don’t understand it, but I’m not disgusted anymore.” 

He pulled her to him again, laying his cheek atop her head.  Mussing her hair, he spoke quietly.  “You have to tell her.”

She squeezed him tight, “And so should you.”

Pulling himself away from her, he walked back to the table.  Picking up his mug, he swished the liquid around the cup.  Throwing his head back, he took the last drink in a heavy gulp, “She mourned for you.  She loves you.”

“Don’t turn this all on me.  I wanted to be with you both, as myself!  But you didn’t tell Sansa the truth either, and you knew just as well as me what was in that fire.”  Her small chest huffed as she shook her head, “I couldn’t risk revealing myself if it meant some danger to her that I didn’t understand.  When you kept quiet, so did I.”

Fiddling with her fingers, she turned away from him.  The air of the tent felt heavy and she noticed how Jon was careful to keep his eyes level with hers, away from the face she grasped in her hand. 

She spoke from the barest part of her soul, “And besides, I’m not the kind of person either of you need in your home.  Not with the things I’ve done.”

 “And what of me?”  Slamming his mug down on the rough wood of the table he shook his head, “We’ve all had to be different people then we planned.  Sansa will accept you in any form.”

“I’ll not put her in danger just because it’s what I want!” She looked at him pointedly, “I know you understand that!”  Pulling in a deep breath she shook her head, “And if there is an afterwards this time, she will know everything.  I’m just not sure I will be able to stay in Winterfell.”

His nostrils flared, but his argument faded in her logic.  The fact that she lived was enough for now.  He softened his tone, “To the Stormlands then?”        

The smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, “Perhaps, one day, at least to tell him the whole truth.  But now my only priority is keeping you two safe.  Jon…”

Heaviness fell on his shoulders, looking at the set of her round eyes.  Pulling in a deep breath he absently traced his scar, “I know it’s my brother.”  

She nodded, “Yes, the silver hair gave him away, and he travels with a man who covers his face.  I’m sorry I couldn’t get close enough to kill him.”

“Then it was right for me to come.  If the realm ever has the chance to be free, the dragons must be destroyed.”

“You are a dragon.”  Her voice couldn’t quite mask her sadness over the truth of his parentage.

The secrets of that night passed between them, and he let out a sigh, “And who better than to fight a dragon but another dragon?”

Arya looked at Jon, her heart squeezing painfully.  “You are not allowed to die.”  Her eyes flickered away, “It would kill her too.”

“She will endure Arya, with or without me.”

“You really are an idiot aren’t you?”  

#

The evening noises floated into the tent, as the men made ready.  A distant clash of rattling pans and voices shouting orders mixed with the more subtle movement of horses and the soft crunch of snow.  The Lord of Casterly Rock pushed the gangly Lord of the Vale in front of him into his former wife’s tent.  Though flanked by his guards, Robin held up his hand and the men backed off.  The beads of sweat now covering his forehead, he raised his hand to wipe them off unable to lift his eyes to look into her unreadable features.  

Tyrion’s cheeks flushed, his nostrils flaring as he stared at Sansa, the raven’s scroll now lying at her feet where he’d tossed it.

Robin spoke to the floor, “It wasn’t him.” 

To her credit she didn’t flinch, and her eyes barely moved, “And here I am,” Tyrion’s small arms came out around him, his lips twitching in a grimace.  “So I passed your test?”

There was no smile, and her face stayed calm, not relishing in the outcome of her scheme, “So it seems.” 

Walking past him, Sansa went to straight to Robin.  In the years since the Great War he had grown tall, his pouty features more pronounced his face sunken in, resembling his mother.  Empathy traveled across her chest, thinking about their twisted path here, and how both their lives had been manipulated by one seeking power.  In a strange way his blatant inadequacies didn’t cause hatred to stir in her gut.  Rather the mask of arrogance he wore was simply that, and it made a wave of pity for him wash over her. 

Standing in front of him she waited until his eyes cast up into hers, “You should go to your men like Jon requested.  They need you more than I do now.  Thank your guards for getting me here safely.”

Robin nodded, his eyes blinking furiously towards Tyrion and then back, “For you I will go, but I don’t know what we’ve accomplished by coming.” He bent over and kissed her hand, pausing a moment then turned to leave.  At the entrance of the tent he stopped, his face covered in shadows, and looked back at her, “Be careful Sansa.”

She nodded, her brow coming down hard over her eyes, “You do the same.”

Hands shaking under his furs Tyrion watched her walk easily back in front of him, “Are you surprised?”

Coming to her knees, she squatted down and picked up the parchment, “I feel nothing Lord Tyrion.”

Her soft voice was a mixture of the hardness she’d become, with a tinge of the child he’d married.  For a moment, a deep compassion tempted him, but he was still reeling from her accusation.  Now at eye level, he softened a bit, “Sansa…You could have just asked me.”

She shook her head the flash of vulnerability already gone.  Twisting the paper in her fingers, she looked straight at him, “What has happened between us will forever mare the future.”

“And what about your desire to ‘put down hostilities?’”  

She stood, her body now towering over him.  “We are at peace.  Yet, the past remains.  Jamie crippled Bran, your father killed Rob and Mother…”

“Jamie fought for you and I killed my father!”

“And your nephew killed mine… Your sister…  The Dragon Queen...”  She sucked in a sharp breath and didn’t continue down that path, “Let us not go round and round rehashing history that will only grieve us.  I told you.  I trust no one south of the Riverlands.”

The small man’s face turned inward, his chest heavy with an emotion he couldn’t quite name.  He picked up his hands, his eyes floated to the raven’s scroll, “Did you know?”

Sansa looked down at her fingers, squeezing them together.  She imagined Jon as he had been in their solar at Winterfell, his gaze cast out over the snow.  The burdened shoulders and heady eyes, amidst this dance of desire and hesitation. She felt him pull away and come back to her, always sensing there lay something undisclosed between them.  There had been nothing she could do or say that had ever brought the truth from his lips.  She straightened her shoulders, burying herself under a layer of steel, knowing she would never reveal all of that to this man. 

Her sharp whisper filled the silence, like a blade on a whetstone, “This is about what you know Lord Tyrion. Jon had communicated the unrest among the men on the council, some wanting a king some wanting to continue as we were, but you weren’t there.  You went to the Eyrie to enlist Lord Arryn in your defense of the realm _while_ the council met in King’s Landing.”

Tyrion tried to respond but Sansa held up her hand stopping him, “I know already.  His hatred for Jon is not surprising or uncommon.  And it matters nothing to me now.” 

The blue of her eyes became slits of cold ice, “You also told me that they shadow didn’t have a name.  And yet the day after we received the raven, you called the meeting of the council members that were at the wedding.  It only makes sense that you received a raven too.”

“And what if I did?”

“Yours came from a very old friend.”

Moving to a chair, Sansa’s skirts settled over her legs as she sat down, her eyebrows rose.  “I can see now you weren’t working with him, but still, you were working to bring us here.”   

“Your plan was to get to the city, and use Jon to fight this conflict and to free whatever population is left inside the walls.  If he lived through it, you would be where you started, but if we didn’t win…”  Her lashes batted and she swallowed, “Then maybe you could remake yourself with your old friends.”

Her features loosened and her shoulders sagged, “Tell me I’m wrong Tyrion.” 

His small chest heaved; trying to find some shock that she’d somehow seen the truth, but inside he felt something closer to envy, “You are not entirely right, but neither are you wrong.”    

“Oh?” Her voice moved unaffected, “With which part?”

“I would make your lord husband king, just as I told you.  Westeros needs a central leader, a _king_ to steady the realm.”

A burst of air came from her lips, “And in the same breath you reminded me what happens to Starks in the south!”  Her hands clutched the arms of the chair, “He must sit the throne, but he will die if he stays?”  She shook her head, “It’s manipulation!” 

“I like to think of it as persuasion Sansa, strong persuasion.”  

“To persuade Jon to the throne which you know will lead to his death and you to power…”

“Jon will win.”  

She folded her hands neatly in her lap, a calm veneer settling over her features, “Before the men leave I will speak to Jon, and tell him all of what I now know.  Despite the fact that you didn’t join your friend, perhaps you can save yourself by explaining his motives.  ‘Peace and prosperity’ were his reasons for supporting Daenerys when he was convinced she was the savior of the realm.  Why does he wish to bring more disaster upon us?”

He came forward to the table and took a flask pouring himself some wine.  With a ginger raise of the glass he looked at her, “Despite some fields aflame and blackened trees, who has been harmed?”

Sansa shifted, but said nothing.  Gendry’s earlier report still fresh in her mind.

Tyrion leaned forward, “And was it truly Daenerys that he wanted on the throne?”   

She tilted her head as she stared at him, “This can’t have always been his plan.”

“No, I’m almost sure it wasn’t,” Tyrion shook his head.  “But plans have to be adjusted when secret princes are found, especially ones that inspire such a love from the common people.”

“Jon is Aegon…  A better version at all points of comparison, why not support him?” 

“Well, despite the fact that Jon has always relinquished his claim?” he paused looking into his empty cup.  Setting it aside he picked up the flask and drank directly from it, “Jon is a Targaryen.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes, “And Aegon isn’t?” 

“Yes, in his own way I suppose he is, but his family has long since gone by a different name.”

She squeezed her fingers into her palm, rubbing the worn paper, “And my mother always said the last of their line was destroyed by Ser Barristan.” 

He tilted his head back, taking another swig from the flask.  He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, “And what family name will you give the babe in your belly when it comes into this world?”

Sansa swallowed, her hands sliding over her nonexistent child that Jon had alluded to at Horn Hill.  

“Lines can be made and unmade by men and women, kings and queens.  Perhaps when you speak to Jon before he goes forward into King’s Landing, you should really _speak_ to him.”

Taking one last drink of wine, Tyrion stood, “And I wasn’t just trying to make Jon king.”  

Sansa looked down, “I’ve heard enough Tyrion.”  

The Imp’s head shifted back, his brows furrowed over his eyes, “Sansa?”

Looking up over his crooked nose, Tyrion stared into her perfect blue eyes, “I was trying to make you queen.”

#

He should have come by now. 

The twisting of her stomach was churning tighter, the tumbling emotion stealing her focus and blurring her vision.  Tyrion had gone, and she had sent Ser Selle to Jon what felt like ages ago. 

The movement of the men had stilled and the bustle that had been so clear before had momentarily settled.  Now a strange calm had fallen over the camp, the howling wind and snow once again the loudest sounds in the forest.  Maybe Jon was already gone with her plea to speak to him ignored. Perhaps he’d already ridden toward the city, but this time without even a wordless goodbye. 

It rushed through her, the memory of his hand rising, the gentle curve of his lips and… those gray eyes looking up to her, for a moment they two the only ones in the world.

The mind was a vicious place, a charlatan taking her places she tried to push from her conscious.  She licked her lips, the blush spreading remembering the feel of his tongue, now a permanent mark underneath her skin.  Unlike her scars, jagged and twisted in her flesh, Jon’s touch had reshaped the steel inside of her, remade into a bastion, glorious like Winterfell.

And once again she found herself atop those walls, ready to throw herself into a pile of snow.  The inside of her chest ached, as if she was running North again with the hounds snarling at her heels.  That remembered terror gripped her now with the truth of her reality.

Underneath his heady gaze she’d allowed herself to feel the maiden and he the hero she’d prayed for.  Almost like they were the song she’d promised him they would never be.

Momentarily swaying, one hand grasped the wooden table for support.  The other balled into a fist, and flew against her teeth.  Slowly she breathed into her hand, wondering if she was going to be sick.

Standing at the entrance of the tent, Jon watched her lean into the table.  Eyes shut tight, and her shoulders angled inward, as if her body was collapsing into itself.  The paleness traveled from her forehead, to her lips, now devoid of the color of summer flowers.

Calling out to her, his voice was swallowed up in the dirge of the wind, “Sansa.”

A bead of sweat formed on her forehead as she fought the pull.  But the words came, permanently branded into her just like his touch. 

 _I don’t want to just father your children, he had said. I want you._   She shook her head, his grip trenching past the steel and into her core. 

The whisper was close, no longer far away.  The flick of his tongue seared the silence, the hollowness inside her chest cavity filled in an instant.  “Sansa.”

 A sudden rush of heat released through her as she turned to his voice.  Jon stood with the same familiar luster echoing from the depths of his gray eyes.  Gone was his broody and solemn face that had covered his features since she’d arrived at camp.  Now he was lit up, eyes glowing and mouth plastered with an unreasonably soft smile. 

In long eager strides he crossed the small space to stand nearer to her.  Pulling on the edges of his gloves he removed them, tossing them aside, with a quick movement he made a move for her waist.

Sansa felt her gut clinch, sliding away as his fingers just skimmed over her hips.  Winter had permeated this meager shelter, her body frigid with the cold that was now seeping into her heart.  

He shifted from foot to foot, his eyes strangely red and his face puffy.  She eyed him curiously, the words spilling out raspy, and more fervent than she planned, “I could never despise you.”   

For a moment he faltered, his grin slipping his mind pulled away from his present euphoria, back to the underlying turmoil.  Dangling between the two spaces, he remembered the night he’d spoken those words.  Leaning forward, he tried reaching for her again.    

Her eyes closed as she shivered, her limbs going languid, aching for his hands.  She wrapped her arms around her middle instead.  Pulling the scroll out of her skirt she put it in his extended hand, “Tyrion isn’t the one who put this in your room.  Of course he knew about Aegon, but it wasn’t because he meant to join him.” 

The irises barely flickered to the small paper, what he knew now obliterated any other notion he’d ever entertained.  Absently, he nodded at least acknowledging her work, before he crumpled it in his hardened fist.  Clearly his throat his stare traveled the length of her hunched form, “I’m a Targaryen Sansa.”

For the beat of several moments she tried to deduce his meaning, play whatever game he had been balancing in his mind, wondering if she should laugh or scream at such an absurd and unrelated statement.  Choosing a balance between the two steep precipices, her eyes blinked, and then her shoulders straightened, facing his words with deadly calm. “You are just as much Stark as you are Targaryen.”

Reaching up, he pulled the heavy fur from around his shoulders and tossed it aside.  Next he took off his belt and laid Longclaw with his fur, slung over a chair.  “I’m ready to talk about Daenerys.”

A spark curled in her belly, “Now?”

“It must be now, or it may be never.”

Cersei whispered again from the past, her reminders of poison and love swirling inside her. Her gaze clouded, and she pulled in a deep breath telling herself she was not a coward, “Then talk.” 

“Daenerys and I were a tragedy, but not like you think.  Not like one of your childhood songs.”

Her stomach rolled, an uncontrollable rush spreading over her body.  The irises of her eyes hardened, “Obviously.”

The abrupt chill of her voice, made his stomach swoop. His lips parted slightly, his brow angled, “I told you it was more complicated than you think.  I couldn’t help what happened with her.  She was beautiful and powerful, and at first it didn’t feel like such a sacrifice to make.  She wanted me, and I needed her.” 

The words forced her back on her heels, her arms falling limply to her sides.  Swallowing hard, she spoke through gritted teeth, “I know all of that.  I still can’t reconcile how you loved her.  Especially not after you came to see the kind of person she truly was!”   

Clenching his jaw, he extended his arms toward the hunched posture of her body.  He nodded, speaking meticulously and quiet. “Aye I did love her, over and over again.”  The dark brows over his eyes rose with a clear meaning, “Many times, and _more_ than enough.”  

Her hips now sank against the table, her pursed lips softening.  Staring hard at him, her eyes blinked ferociously, matching her heartbeat. “More than _enough_?”

He took a step closer, his legs pushing into her skirts, “I couldn’t tell her no even though I wanted to.”

The rasp of his voice faded away as she felt herself fall, her weight now completely against the wood.  Searching her mind desperately trying to clear away the fog, “What are you saying?”   

This time his fingers made contact with the heavy wool of her dress, lightly moving at her waist. The fire inside his body melted the ice in her, “You told me to be smarter and I listened to you.”

His shoulders rose and fell, “It wasn’t easy to pretend, but I watched you maneuver enough to learn how to play.  And I’m still playing the game; gods help me, because somehow it is still not won.”

The wind rushed again through her hair as she could almost feel herself plummeting forward.  Since they day she had jumped with Theon, she had never really stopped falling.  The realization came swiftly as the last pieces of the person she had been suddenly landed in the snow around her.  Never allowing herself to exist in the world since Joffrey, Cersei, Petyr, and Ramsey, she’d transformed herself.  Moving from breakable to impervious, she combated everything that had been stripped from her.  Winter had come and its kingdom was not just the North but it reigned in the shell that had been Sansa Stark.

The beautiful frozen vapor that had kissed Sansa’s eyelashes and lightened her copper tresses since before she could dance and sing.  Snow.  It was a powerful force in the North, ushering in winter when the wolves would become strong.  She had listened to enough dirges and songs about the North and its loyal heroes to recognize them. 

Jon. 

Jon was the North, he was winter and snow, made of Winterfell and carrying the blood of the first men.  He had shared her winter, but had brought her back with fire.  That fire, the fire that resided in him, though buried it burned hot and bright. Wielding it, he’d forced her to be, and begged her to exist again in a world where everything had died. 

No, he wasn’t a Targaryen alone, because they didn’t plant trees or tend the earth.  And she’d thought she’d been locked in her winter, tilling the ground, and clawing her way back to life alone.     

A lump built up in her throat but she forced herself to swallow, “You lied.”

“Of course I lied.”

“Why Jon? 

Hands spreading out he reached toward the table, grasping the wood on either side of her waist he pressed against her. Her body so pliant and yielding he struggled to bring his eyes back up and meet hers, “It wasn’t the first time I hid my true loyalties, but I had to be sure the North was secure.” 

Her eyes shut again and she nodded her head, “Qhorin Halfhand and even Ygritte…  Why tell me now?”

“I wanted to tell you everyday Sansa, but I remembered father.  He never told your mother that I wasn’t his child.  It would have eased a pain that I know was always between them, but he didn’t.  And why not?”

Sansa blinked, her mind blurring in different directions.  Looking over his features her breath tumbled in her chest.  Bringing her hand up to his cheek, she let her fingers linger in his black beard, “To protect you, and to protect her.”

“Aye,” he nodded in return.  “Now you understand.”  

Under her hand she felt his skin, her heart a muddle of words and thoughts, racing with the truth of what he’d told.  Her eyes swept down, their torsos burning and melting into each other without direction.  She brought her hand up and placed it over his heart, remembering his bare chest and the scars that lay underneath his leather.  “You told me you couldn’t, that you would never…”

His eyes fluttered, as he leaned forward his body pressing deeper into her.  “I know,” his nose grazed hers.  “Everything I said was true, there was a time when I believed it.”    

“I remember you sitting with Joffrey and how I hated him,” his words flowed as if he was in the middle of a conversation. 

“It started when you were engaged to Gendry, but it was clear after I saw Tyrion with you at the wedding feast.  I know now why I’ve never really cared for him, and it is because of _you_.  So I took you back to my bed and held you, trying to ease my conscious by reminding myself that you were my wife.”

“Jon-” she tried to stop him, but he continued.

“That night I asked you to sing? Do you remember?  Your hands in my hair and your…” He swallowed, “It was your voice that I followed out of my solar and into the courtyard.  It was your voice I heard singing at the wall and…” He stopped his face flushing and eyes round and wild, “The moment I heard you sing I knew it was true.  Your voice!  You brought me back.”  His chest shuddered, “You were already inside me Sansa, from the very beginning.”  

Completely undeterred by his confessions, she took him by the shoulders and shook him, “Look at me!”  

Instead he shut his eyes and looked down, shaking his head, “I didn’t understand it until that morning in our bed and then it all finally fit into place.  I wanted to say it was my death that changed me but it’s me, who I am.  It’s in my blood.  My Targaryen blood.”

Raising herself off of the table she put her hands on the sides of his face forcing him to look at her.  Gently, she stroked his cheeks, “Jon Targaryen, Aegon Targaryen.  Jon Stark. Jon Snow.  I don’t care if you have two names or ten.  To me, you are just Jon.” 

Her eyes filled with tears that spilled down her cheeks, “And you’re not the only one that lied.”

The breath labored in her chest, as she watched the surprise of his features, “I told you I didn’t care about anything but safety and an heir for father.”  She held him tighter, “And it was true, I was dead, so far gone that I didn’t feel anything and I didn’t want to.”  She leaned forward and ghosted his mouth with a light kiss, “I will not feel guilty or question myself as you have done.  I am proud to be your wife.”  She tried to fight it, but her throat caught, emotion spilling from her, “I do not deserve you, but you are mine.”

“I love _you_ , Jon.  Not because you are a prince, or a lord and my champion, but because you are mine.  You are simply, Jon.”

His eyes fluttered, brushing over her face, “Yours.”

“Mine, just like the song.” she opened her mouth to sing, the ballad about the love of the last wolf for the once secret dragon.

A northern wolf and hidden dragon

Nothing sweeter to imagine

A bursting tale of deep desire,

This their song of ice and fire…

Once King of the North

Now heir of the realm entire

Once the sword in the darkness

A mix of ice and of fire…

His hands reached up, digging into her hair.  The red tresses mingled with his fingers and he fought against all his nightmares and dark thoughts. Pulling back he whispered the next words against her trembling lips.

And I the dragon could rule the realm

And she my wolf the northern helm

And in my bed the stars outshine

For I am hers and she is mine

The breath left Sansa as she touched his beloved face whispering back against him.

And I the wolf that prowls the night

And he my dragon strong in flight

And in my heart the sun succumbs

For across the land winter comes

In space of a few seconds their world shifted again, moved by the tender truth in their confessions.  Their eyes saw each other clearly, the past years laid between them, building into a beautiful anthem that would be played until the end of their days.  They spoke together:

A northern wolf a hidden dragon

Nothing sweeter to imagine

A bursting tale of deep desire

This _our_ song of ice and fire.

And for a moment they just held each other in the focus of their stares.  A burning ache sizzled between them, an overwhelming flame that would consume their lives.

In an agony that was painfully sweet, Jon hesitated, eyes floating to her lips, the storm softening and the crinkles appearing at the corner of his eyes, “Sansa… I-

A long metallic screech swallowed his words as a violent shaking of the canvas pulled the poles taut, shifting the ground beneath their feet. 

Suddenly, the air turned hot, a burst of light exploded above them.  The commotion outside was instant, the rush of the blow throwing their bodies backward against the table. 

Immediately a second gust hit the tent, something ripping the canvas from above.  With a forceful tug, Jon pulled Sansa to the floor, covering her body with his.  In the shuffle, he jerked her too hard, her head knocking against the table in her fall.

“Oh…” her moan was low and soft as her hand flew up to her temple.  Through hazy eyes she looked up to Jon, his features twisted in a grimace.  His hands were over her, just before another gust followed by screams caused her body to tense and scrunch up.

From the fetal position she saw him twist and stand, his chest shuttering up and down at a frantic pace.  Around the edges of her sight, black splotches appeared sending her aching head swimming into confusion.    

Jon stopped moving and knelt admits the chaos and the screaming and leaned back on his heels.  From Sansa’s spot on the floor behind him she tried to reach out and touch him, but he was too far away.

With his back to her, his whisper came out like the groan of a dying animal, “I am the dragon…”

And then the world shifted once again as her mind faded to black. 

         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A northern wolf and hidden dragon  
> Nothing sweeter to imagine  
> A bursting tale of deep desire,  
> This their song of ice and fire…
> 
> Once King of the North  
> Now heir of the realm entire  
> Once the sword in the darkness  
> A mix of ice and of fire…
> 
> And I the dragon could rule the realm  
> And she my wolf the northern helm  
> And in my bed the stars outshine  
> For I am hers and she is mine
> 
> And I the wolf that prowls the night  
> And he my dragon strong in flight  
> And in my heart the sun succumbs  
> For across the land winter comes
> 
> A northern wolf a hidden dragon  
> Nothing sweeter to imagine  
> A bursting tale of deep desire  
> This our song of ice and fire.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Father?” Jon’s voice harsh and high sounded strange in this place as it echoed off the floor.
> 
> The man stopped walking, his face obscured in dimness, “I stood right there once, where your feet walk. There were so many choices before and behind me; the world changing from black to white and back again.”
> 
> “Father… I don’t understand,” his voice sputtered a reply.
> 
> The man chuckled, “Why do you call me father when that is not my name?”
> 
> The dragon screeched louder, heat building under Jon’s skin, “Because you know me. Tell me who I am?”
> 
> “There are always two sides to every man, two faces. Sometimes,” the man stepped into the light as the sigil on his leather was revealed. “They have two names.”- Not Like the Songs Ch. 14

The cold rush of a hot wind swept over her sprawled body, the distinct smell of ash filling her nostrils.  The lids of her eyes fluttered as her limbs and mind slowly slipped back into consciousness. 

A groan fell through her lips, her ears perking at the noises spewing above her, around her, beside her.  Boots and snow and men and animals, the storm swirled closer and closer and she jerked, forcing her eyes completely open. 

From the dirt, she could see the legs of the wooden table.  She blinked, once, twice over and over again and turned on her back, her eyes greeted with the open sky.

Flames died around her the top of the tent singed, but not aflame.  The frame of the open canvas outlined the night sky in a jagged shape, the stars almost all hidden behind the remnants of smoke and ash. 

Her eyes stung and she choked, her blood tingling, “Jon?”  Her voice was small and weak against the winter and siege that clashed together, the torrent a rhythm of screams and fire.  “Jon?”

Turning her body back to the side, she put her hands against the ground.  The warmth of her gloves was painfully absent when her fingers dug into the cold earth, using her hands to lean against her elbow.  Her skirt was heavy as she turned and caught glimpse of her husband, sweet relief momentarily making her forget the sting on her head.  

Sitting on his heels, his back was to her.  His shoulders were shaking and trembling strangely in his position.  She called his name again, “Jon?”

There was no response, nor did he turn making any indication that he had heard her.  A cold spark spread across her chest as she pushed herself up on her feet.  Arms out to the side, Sansa swayed instantly bringing her hand to her injury.  With measured steps she came to him, “Jon.”

When still he didn’t move, the gnawing in her stomach turned violent.  Moving as quickly as she dared, she came around to face him.  

Heaviness overtook her body, as she stumbled back a few paces.  White lips fell open as the jolt of awareness buckled her knees, the blood once again rushing to her head. 

In her mind she finally understood his sorrowful whisper, “ _I was the dragon.”_

The earth braced her fall as she looked upon his beloved face, catching herself with her palms.  The sweat fell in droplets on his ashen features, his body radiating heat.  It was almost as if he was fire himself being doused with cold water. 

And his eyes… Gone were the gray irises she had grown to love and in their place were snow white orbs.  Just like Bran.

The screeching outside intensified, but Sansa hunched dutifully at his feet, watching in wonder as he struggled, his breath erratic. As many times as she’d heard about this ancient magic and after everything she had seen since she had been a little girl at Old Nan’s feet, it still took her breath away.

The rush outside moved away and a quiver traveled the length of his body.  And then… His eyes rolled back, and he returned to her, staring out from behind his lids. 

Sansa scooted up to him, her hands sliding up over his arms.  The tremor in her touch, effected him as his lips parted, releasing a rattled breath.

“Water,” his voice pleaded its first words. 

Reaching across to the table, she found his mug and held it up to his lips trying to ease the shake of her hand. 

“Sansa,” his voice was raspy and pained as his grip came around hers on the mug.  He pulled her closer to him, “I never meant for you to see this side of me.”

The screaming from outside momentarily averted her eyes as she struggled to come to terms with what she witnessed.  She licked her lips, gripping his leather, “How long have you been able to do this?”

He took a long drink and then another.  He cast his eyes down, mouth slack with heavy breaths, “At first it was just dreams.  Mixed with the past and filled with direwolves… and eventually dragons.  Then it became real.  After the fire, they changed.”

Her eyes blinked, rapid breath whooshed in and out, her words exploding in a hard exhale, “The fire?”

Finishing the contents of the cup, he sat it down.  His arms went limp against his sides, “Daenerys told me once her dreams always came true.”

Her chest squeezed, “Is that true?  Do they come to pass?”

Outside the wind blew, the lonely howl like a wolf lost without a pack.  Jon watched Sansa eyes, the blue sea rising and falling in gently waves. 

“It doesn’t work exactly like that,” he faltered breaking eye contact.  “It’s more haunting than revealing.”

“What fire do you mean Jon?”

 Letting out an uncontrolled moan he shook his head, “I should have told you years ago.  Right when I came home.”

“You can tell me all now,” she heard the flutter above them mixing with the crashing and the stomp of men forming and organizing.  “Before we are burned alive and it’s too late.”

He moved and touched her temple with his fingertips, “I’m sorry if I hurt you.”  

She denied the pain, absently reaching up and touching his hand against her face. “It’s not serious.”

Pushing in closer to her, his chest rose and fell against her.  With erratic fervor, his fingers dug into her hair. “I never wanted this life for you.  I only wanted to protect you.  I just wanted you to be able to stay in Winterfell, where no one could touch you again.  I promise you.  I promise you.  That is all I ever wanted.”  He laid his forehead on hers, “The night I killed her she-

A violent rush of cold wind swooped through the tent, shaking the weakened canvas, sending Sansa against Jon.  The wooden table and papers went flying around the space, the heat from around them suddenly sucking away the winter. 

The boots and the shouts got closer as Ser Selle appeared at the entrance of the tent, “Dragon,” he sucked in a quick breath of air, his face blackened and covered with ash.  “There are men shouting that he’s landed in the open field, outside of the walls.  My lord the army is forming, and we wait for your orders.”   

Sansa’s attention drifted from Selle’s wide eyes and moved back to Jon.  She pulled his face closer, her words quiet, “Will you go out and meet him?”  

Nodding in remorse, his hands came up to grasp hers, “I must Sansa or he will fly back and I won’t be strong enough to stop him before he burns everything alive.”   

In the silence between them she acknowledged he was right.  And her mind thought of every moment before when Jon had ridden away; trying to save Rickon, gone out ranging beyond the wall, fighting at the Fist of the First Men, sailing away to Dragonstone… She allowed herself a moment to stroke his cheek, thanking him for who he was, and at the same time punishing him for it.  Her belly curled, her blue eyes sparked with her own kind of fire.  Grabbing his leather in a tight fist, she shook him, “And if he burns you alive?”  

Physically jolted by her warning, he wrenched himself away and stood up. “He won’t Sansa.”   

“How can you be so sure?”  She stood up with him, her eyes shifted to Ser Selle, searching for some support.

“Because they know me, and I know them.”

She swallowed, more men shuffling outside, the smell of night and cold settling in her limbs. “Them?”

“Yes,” Jon nodded as he moved to the overturned chair and grabbed his gloves and fur and put them on quickly.  He strapped Longclaw to his waist and stared at Sansa, holding her gloves out to her, “There are two dragons.”  

#

The divisions of men formed on the tree line, behind and amongst the trees the commanders atop their horses, shouting orders and rising of banners.  The different families were mixed together, great houses and lower houses, all men of Westeros ready to stand against the foreign threat for what they hoped would be the last time.

The trio came out of the scorched tent to see like shelters destroyed and the camp completed overturned.  A distant crash of burnt limbs and falling trees disrupted the white landscape.  The air was orange and hot, a thin layer of black flakes floated across the winter air as Tyrion and Sam ran over, their faces marred with ash and soot.   

Sansa’ met Tyrion’s questioning stare and shook her head, indicating her failure to share their earlier conversation with Jon.  Tyrion nodded, and looked down, his eyes darting about, his chest rising uncomfortably. 

Their wide eyes stared around the camp, Jon could feel his body shudder, still weakened from his excursion and the anticipation of what was to come.  He turned to Sansa, hands to her waist and whispered, “You won’t stay behind will you?”

Hands splayed up against his chest, she leaned her nose into his neck inhaling the sweet scent of him.  His hand snaked up the middle of her back, rubbing circles under her furs.  She pulled back shaking her head, “If I asked you not to go would you listen to me?”

The tips of his mouth turned up slightly, as his hand reached up, absently stroking the end of her braid.  Her declaration from before stirring his touch with new meaning, “Sansa, I-

“No,” she let her fingertips rest against his lips. “Tell me when you come back.”

His mouth fell into a hard line, clinching his jaw, “Selle?”

Jon looked at the knight, “Keep her back, well behind the front line of the men and the leaders that move forward as I treat with him.  When things start, leave and don’t look back, no matter who seems to have the upper hand.”  

The knight nodded and looked between Jon and Sansa, “The pack survives.”

The Lady of Winterfell looked at them both, catching the remarkable change between them.  When she turned back into Jon to question him, his arms had already slipped from her and he was making his way forward, to the front of their lines.

As they walked through the destroyed camp Sansa eyed the soldiers, ready and waiting to follow Jon when called upon.  Kiran Reed stood with the Northmen, nodding his head respectfully toward his lord and lady as they walked past. The way he looked at Jon, as he marched forward to meet his enemy, filled her with a familiar determination.   The desire to save the North had been the catalyst that had led her to Jon in the beginning.  Never had her confidence in him waivered, but as reality of what lay ahead approached, she couldn’t deny that no matter the army at their back, a familiar feeling prickled at the base of her spine.  

The cold wind whipped over her as she got blocked behind more soldiers, Ser Selle stuck close to her side followed by Gendry.  Jon and Tyrion continued on, leading the group toward the open field where Selle had said the dragons landed.  They were flanked by loyal guards and Samwell Tarly, Heartsbane still looking out of place and much too large on his hip.  

Before she could maneuver her way through the soldiers to see, she could hear the screech of the beasts; hear the flap of the wings.  Shoulders bumped her and the subtle whisper of ‘m’lady’ followed her as she finally made her way through the lines of soldiers, settling near the front.     

At first glance they were smaller than Daenerys’ dragons had been. One of the beasts was white, almost blending in with the snow except for its blood eyes.  Unconsciously, Sansa touched the clasp of her furs.  The other was like the night, and smaller than the first one.  Its eyes were like the trees, his scales jagged and sleek.  They were beautiful but hideous creatures, their size both magnificent and terrifying.    

Some men drew their swords, and she wanted to laugh at the empty gesture.  Watching Jon’s shoulders tense as he spoke with force, her belly curled inward and her lips trembled.

“Stay your swords,” he spoke to the men.

It took his breath away, to finally see them both side by side.  The mixture of emotions was intense, stirring the blood that called out to them, a part of himself he couldn’t deny.  Looking at the animals, Jon’s face remained stoic, his eyes steady, “I’m here just as you asked.” 

When he spoke a figure moved off the back of the black creature.  He sauntered toward the forces of Westeros, his low growl angry and disdainful, “And so this is the man that defeated the mother of dragons?”

His armor was black, boiled leather and chainmail.  His shoulders were broader and his stature was assured.  The silver locks that hung at his shoulders brought images of Daenerys into Jon’s mind filling his stomach with the ashes of memory. 

As he spoke, soldiers appeared behind the dragons, filling out in a long line while the walls of King’s Landing set the backdrop.   

Sansa felt Selle’s grip on her forearm sending her body further away, shielding her with his own.  Sansa could see Jon still, elevated on the higher ground but just barely.  She bobbed for a better look, heads of soldiers obscuring her view.

Jon shifted, his military eye sizing up the threat.  He swallowed, “Aye,” his eyes looked down, indicating Longclaw strapped tight to his hip.  “Here is the blade you asked for Aegon Targaryen, the blade that bled her.”

“So it is true!  You killed your own blood, your aunt.  Your lover.”  

Jon felt his stomach clench painfully aware his wife was somewhere behind him.  He made eye contact with Arya, giving her a nonverbal reminder to protect her. 

“But you didn’t love her, did you?” Aegon continued his hands coming up around him, “No, Targaryens have a thing for their sisters, don’t we?”  He turned the full force of his cold stare into the crowd searching for Sansa.   “And where is your beautiful red haired sister wife dear brother?”   

Sansa felt her gut clinch as she felt the perusal of his eyes, underneath her skin dragging her nightmares back from the dead.  The snow sprinkled from the sky, scattering her sight with flakes of white.  Shivering at the man’s words, she understood his disdain, given the knowledge Tyrion had shared with her.  Licking her lips she pulled her fur tighter around her body.  She looked toward Ser Selle; his eyes achingly familiar they communicated, without her having to ask.  The grip of his fingers loosened.

Sansa side stepped to a small embankment, her height giving her the advantage over the heads of the soldiers that stood between them.  She felt the flush of bodies turn toward her as her voice carried over to the men and dragons, “I’m here pretender.”

Jon’s eyes met Sansa’s across the field, her chin stuck out and her gloved hands crushed into fists at the tufts of her skirts.   

When the determined words fell from her lips, his eyebrows crumbled, hearing some meaning in her voice.

Sansa nodded her head, encouraging Jon, “Yes my lord.  You heard me correctly.”

She could see Tyrion just off to Jon’s right side, agreeing, his small feet sinking into the snow, “Your wife speaks the truth.

Jon looked from Sansa to Tyrion and then back to the man he’d believed to be his brother deciphering their meaning.

The man snickered, “I am still a dragon.  A black dragon to be sure, but still a dragon.”

Taking a step closer Jon moved his chin to the side, the rush of relief pooling into his limbs lighting his chest on fire.  Lightness tingled in his blood expanding across his chest; a slow smile fell against his face.  Looking down, he rested his hands on the pummel of his sword. 

After a moment, his eyes swept back up and straight into the sneering man’s face, “You have no claim.”

“History says otherwise thanks to your namesake and… I have dragons,” he lifted his gloves indicating the beasts.

“Do you?”

The man lifted his chin and shook his head, “I raised them, and sheltered them while they were still small and weak.  And now, they stand with me.”

“But did you father them?”   

The man took a step forward which propelled a jolt from the group, weapons whipped out and the clamor of men began again. 

“I said stand down!”  Jon shouted again arms coming out on either side of his body.  He looked up to the beasts and cocked his head to the side words tumbling through his brain.  He closed his eyes, a gently harsh awareness rushed through him, lifted him, and terrified him.  The reoccurring dream came back to him as he imagined himself in the throne room staring at the man he’d thought had been Eddard Stark. 

The words formulated in his brain as his eyes came open, making eye contact with the beast. 

“I now know who I am,” he whispered straight into the beautiful but monstrous eyes.    

He turned and shouted out toward Aegon, “Two dragons, one black and one white.”  He paused as he stared past his fake brother as the beasts seemed to turn their heads toward his voice, “I’ve been flying them in my dreams since the moment they were born.” 

The flash of slight confusion came across the pale skin of other man’s face.  Jon shifted his shoulders his voice becoming calm, “I have no doubt that you have felt it, up there on their backs.  Flying down toward the fields and castles and then suddenly losing control?”

A small breeze lifted the silver hair off the man’s shoulders, as he turned his head looking up to the beasts, “And yet you couldn’t really stop me or I wouldn’t be here.  And I have had dreams of my own.”  

Jon pulled in a deep breath and spoke his voice steady and sure, “That all may be true, but the dragons are mine. 

“Yours…” The man looked down his nose at Jon.

“Mine,” he said without hesitation. “My children.”

Sansa gasped, her body jerked atop her spot, Ser Selle and Gendry shadowing her quick movement. The shake of her body quaked and then rolled as she lost awareness, taking a few steps toward him.  Coming alongside the front line of soldiers, his back was to her again.  He looked taller from the place that he stood, completely assured and unafraid of the large monsters that flapped their wings, jagged sharp teeth and hot breath only yards away from him.  _His_ , he had said.  _His children._

Jon turned his head, his eyes meeting Sansa’s over the field.  Her brows furrowed, her body instinctively leaning towards him, wordlessly calling out to him across the distance.  

 _“I am a dragon.”_ He wanted to say, “ _Do you despise me now?”_

Aegon threw his head back and cackled a sick sound that reminded Sansa of the squealing pigs birthed in the Winterfell stalls, only more desperate and pathetic then such animals. She moved forward again, this time she could feel the presence of Ser Selle and Gendry pressing behind her, ready to seize her if she got too close.

“Your _children_?”  He laughed again. 

Jon turned away from her, his body now concentrated on the man, “After everything was done and the Night King was gone it still wasn’t enough for Daenerys.  Her army was devastated and scattered, and her dragons were destroyed.  All she wanted was the throne, but she knew she couldn’t take it if not for her children.  So, she tried to make more.”  

The man’s nostril’s flared, his pale face now resembling the snow they stood upon, his laugh fading away. 

His story continued his breath hot and harsh like a burning ember, “The queen _tried_ to use me in the sacrifice.”

The group of men beside Sansa shifted, drawing her eyes to the crowd.  The metal clashed with whispers that carried though the ranks, mixing with the howling of the wintry night.  The snow fell harder, as the beasts before them shifted closer to Jon’s voice.  Every time they moved the ground shook under all of the people’s feet. 

Sansa felt his words move throughout her body a hot rush settling under her skin despite the cold. The implications of his words swirled inside of her branding her with their sting.  

“But… She hadn’t anticipated everything,” a small smirk lit the corners of Jon’s mouth as his eyes skirted to the side. 

Sansa’s chest heaved as she followed her husband’s line of sight, looking out across the snow towards her but into Selle’s face.  Her head turned toward the knight her jaw clinched and brow knit in confusion.

“Though she strapped me to a funeral pyre, she didn’t know my salvation,” he pulled Longclaw from its hilt and the moonlight cascaded off the blade.  “Was buried in the flame.”

The black dragon swallowed, looking around to the men that stood around him.  His jaw tightened, “A lie.”  

“When Daenerys walked into the flame, I don’t know how long it was, and I don’t know what happened after.  But I do remember plunging my blade in her chest and watching the life drain from her violet eyes.”

“When the fire was gone, so were the dragon eggs and everything turned white again, the ashes and wood covered in snow.  It was just me and her bloodless body.”  His eyes cast down to Longclaw, covering the length of the blade.  His voice shook, “There were times when I wasn’t for sure it truly happened.”

From the place she stood, Sansa’s shoulders sagged under the weight of the burden he’d carried.  Alone in his secrets for years, she ached for his pain, “You stubborn, selfless man,” the raspy whisper fell from her unhindered lips.

“And so you don’t belong anywhere do you,” his voice was cold and hard.  “No mother, no father, no uncle, no brothers no sisters-well except for the one you married.  You are alone Jon Snow.”

“And yet look at the forces that surround me.”

He crossed his arms over his black leather, “And now they all know your secrets!  Raised from the dead by a witch that uses her magic to sacrifice innocent children and now supposedly immune to fire, the father of dragons who killed his father’s sister!  Yes…” He drew out the syllable low and hard, “What kind of man are you to lead these gathered here?”  

Jon narrowed his eyes, “I have never tried to claim the throne.”

“Exactly,” his arms fell to the hilt of his sword.

He gripped Longclaw in his hand, “What is it that you hope to gain exactly?  You know you cannot win.”   

“ _We_ are here for you, for your magical blood, for what you did.”

Jon looked unimpressed over the men that stood beside Aegon, “She wouldn’t have wanted you, no matter what any snake is whispering in your ear.  The purity of Targaryen blood was very important to her, and you’re a Blackfyre, a bastard in her eyes.” 

The man’s nostrils flared, “Then perhaps I’ll take your new wife, the wolf with red hair.  Hmmm?  She’s already had two bastards, why not take a third?” 

The fire in his limbs erupted as Jon staggered forward bringing Longclaw out in front of him, the acceptance of who he was now fully aflame inside of him.  “I am not a bastard, but the blood of the dragon and a descendant of the First Men. You will not live to see the sunrise.”

The promise was made as Gendry safely pulled Sansa back into the trees, Ser Selle and others coming around to her.  The beasts fluttered, sending a violent rush over the soldiers and what was left of the camp. 

Tyrion and the other men with Jon backed up; closer to the soldiers that stood behind them.  Sam struggled to pull the Valyrian blade from his hilt, as another soldier placed a smaller blade in Tyrion’s hand.

Aegon’s sword clashed with Jon’s as Sansa’s eyes watched them dance between the beasts.  Jon was quick and his agile body floated, naturally countering all the blows brought from the Blackfyre’s sword. 

The other men hesitated, still acutely aware of the beasts that stood just behind the crash of dragons.  Aegon shouted something, turning his head for a brief moment to try to communicate.  It was all the opportunity Jon needed as he maneuvered formulating a death blow. 

The silvered hair pretender anticipated the attack, only able to save his life.  He was hit by the full force of Jon’s blade in the arm, his cries followed by the movement of the black beast. 

Sansa felt her lungs burn, trying to swallow air she couldn’t bring herself to breath.  The men pressed in, still unable to gather the courage to charge the fire breathing monsters.  She watched Jon chase Aegon, picking up his dropped sword. 

Suddenly, the black beast and Jon stood face to face.  Sansa looked all over for Aegon wondering if he had slipped away behind his men.

Then from atop the dragon she heard him shout, a word that made her limbs grow weak and her hands shake, “Fire.”

Jon stood, unmoved and seemingly unafraid his eyes searching the depths of the beast, calling out to it from the blood he accepted as his. 

It was a moment that he’d feared, but now that he faced their power he felt convinced again about what must be done.  He took a step forward the beast blinking slowly, time ceasing to move forward.  The green eyes measured Jon, the strange connection mirrored back to him.  His heart pounded, waiting for the fire that he had to believe was not going to come. 

The black beast moved his head, left to right, and back again as its great wings rose up over the now crouching men.  In a cloud of snow and ash it took flight over the group of soldiers, flying back over the walls of King’s Landing.   

The men that stood with Aegon shouted, the roar carrying over Sansa with memories of blood and death.  She stared at Jon’s back shaking her head, talking to him as if he stood right beside her.  Her mouth snarled to him, “Don’t.”

The white dragon watched his brother fly away, its heavy feet turning bracing for flight.  Jon could feel himself tear, as he called out to the beast, but what slipped from his mouth was a sound he didn’t understand, “ _Daor.”_

The beast halted, the words meaning nothing to anyone but him.  His red eyes turned back toward the sound.  Jon met the white dragon and touched his face, like such an action was instinct, or practiced.  Sansa felt a chill go through her as she struggled against the men that held her in place. 

Jon swallowed a deep mourning already inside of him as he saw what must happen next.  He caressed the beast’s face, a mixture of emotions he wasn’t able to define clenched at his chest.  Swaying back, on his heels he winced, whispering to the monster the words he’d spoken to his sister, “Who better to fight a dragon than another dragon?” 

“Let me go,” Sansa cried out to the men around her.  Her body frantic as she saw what Jon meant to do.  

“Not bloody likely,” the knight responded a hint of her true self seeping through the mask.

Sansa shouted out to him, her body losing any sense of control or reason, “Jon!”

Turning to her, the smile that tipped the corner of his lips and crinkled his eyes was finally free.  The twisted ideal of which he had believed himself to be was gone; so he turned back, eyes sweeping over her.  Her fur set atop her shoulders, and her braid lifted off of it in the wind, her eyes were wide and her body arched toward his.  Pain seized him; in his chest, in his lungs, filling his throat with the dream of her blood in his hands.  Suddenly brought back to the reality of their surroundings, he shouted back to her, “Stay there Sansa!”  

Sansa’s face was white her lips twitching painfully, her voice mixing with the snow and wind she ignored him, and took another step forward, “You did not burn?”

He shook his head, speaking to her and the crowd of people that stood poised ready to fall into battle, “I am the last Targaryen.”

Staring at him, Sansa’s breath was erratic, the distance between their bodies smaller now that she had stepped closer to him.  Their song played inside her, the vision of them together the last night at Horn Hill.  The feeling of his lips against her bare skin and his gentle whispers as their bodies finally crossed the threshold of desire.  The ache of want consumed her but far transcended the physical world.  She remembered the feast, when he kissed her and she’d promised that they would not be the last of their families.  The night she had promised they would be ice and fire.    

A wild impulse formulated as she felt Arya’s courage from somewhere inside of her.  Her breath was hot against the caress of wind that carried her words, “Not today.”

Something unearthly gripped her which was the only explanation for her ability to slip out of the grasp of both men guarding her.  In an instant, her feet lifted up, sprinting toward her husband.  Watching the calm assurance of his face morph into panic when he saw her flight, Sansa grunted in her escape. 

Her dress made the run awkward and the snow made it difficult.  After the initial surprise of her getaway, Gendry and Ser Selle caught her easily.  Gendry gripped about her waist, the hold making her call out in pain, “Jon!  Don’t follow him… Don’t!”   Ser Selle pulled his sword, standing between the still distant dragon and his lady. 

Sansa’s jerking immediately stopped, her brow furrowed at the length of the small blade. Leaning away from Gendry she tried to look around Selle’s body to see the sword that was extended but she couldn’t budge in the prison of his iron grip.

Her braid whipped around her as she shouted out to Jon, twisting and turning trying to get to him, “They _will_ be brave, gentle and strong!  Remember them and come back to me.”

Jon let out his breath, the puff of air mixing with the ash and snow. Underneath all her pain there were still parts of the Sansa he had known as a child.  The idealistic romantic girl that longed for a hero and children of her own still lived.  In his mind he saw her worried features the night they agreed to wed.  From the very beginning she had promised to love his children, not because they would look like the Starks, but because they would be his. 

In his visions he saw her, his seed taken root inside of her and swollen with child.  _His_ child.  Free and safe, tucked away in Winterfell.  It was warm and tasted like summer fruit, and his blood buzzed with the heat of a new song.  A sweet dream of spring that made each inch between their bodies cut deeper. 

Feeling the dragon nudge him with his massive head, Jon reached up touching the animal again.  He clung to the song, the promise of the life he imagined with her.  He looked over the slope of the field, past the men and straight into the sea of her eyes, “ _This our song of ice and fire.”_  

The circle around the men became taut, the bodies pressing forward.  Sansa could feel herself being jerked back with his strength, slipping away from Jon once again.  

When they reached the safety of the trees, Sansa felt Gendry inexplicably release her.  He came around the other men his face intent on Ser Selle.  His soft eyes confused her, their voices and tones seemingly unaware of the burning world around them. 

“Fire and fury,” he said simply.  A man with a stag on his armor came forward and offered Gendry his weapon.  The grip of his strong hands came around his warhammer and he nodded in respect toward Sansa, and then quickly turned to follow Jon.

For a moment, Selle’s stance in front of her faltered and she lunged forward toward Jon and the dragon, but just as quickly he was back, blocking her once again with his larger body.

The knight grunted, “We must let them go Sansa.”

The dragon laid down his head, giving Jon access to his back.  As they took flight, the great wings spread snow around the group like ashes.  The world began swirling again, the song of her new life fading as she watched the beast rise above her and fly Jon away.

They hovered above the walls of King’s Landing and then shot downward, somewhere in the city.  Around them, men shouted and cheered as Gendry stood in the place the dragons had vacated. 

In front of the enemy swords, he raised his hammer up over his head, “Men of Westeros, this night we will fight as one people!  Bastard and prince, merchant and blacksmith!  Let us send these invaders back to their own country and restore our peace.  Our brothers and sisters are trapped inside the walls and cry out for liberation.  The fire is coming so we must move quickly in our fury.  Are you with me?  Follow me!”

Cries and shouts shook the ground, the men rushing forward, metal clanging and banners flying.  Horses and boots pounded the snow into the ground, the wind carrying them forward as the crash of metal echoed across the fields.

Someone grabbed her arm, trying to help Ser Selle coax her backwards further into the safety of the trees.  Horses were brought to them saddled and ready to take her from the fight just as Jon had commanded.   

Sansa jerked her arm away shouting into the man’s face, her words slurring in betrayal, “Why would I go anywhere with you?  You carry the blade of Arya Stark!  My sister!”

“My lady…”

“Don’t tell me I’m wrong!” Her voice commanded her knight, never taking her eyes off the place where Jon appeared again, the white dragon circling the black one.  “Where did you get that sword?”   

With a different step, Ser Selle turned to face her, his eyes carrying over the length of the blade.     

Shaking Sansa whispered, “Were you with her when she died?”  

“No…” a choke of tears cut off the word.  “She… _I_ didn’t die.”

The Lady of Winterfell blinked staring at the face she’d looked at everyday trying to understand his words.  Something inside of her snapped, like the branches under her feet in the Godswood, and she backed away, her steps only stopped by a tree at her back.  She shook her head, trembling, stomach rolling, “My sister is dead.”

“Sansa,” her hands went up to palm her face. 

Panic seized Sansa and she leapt forward, staying her knight’s hand, she looked into the eyes.  Hot tears fell onto her quivering lips, “Arya?”  

The knight swallowed, and nodded, “Lady Stark.”

Sansa sank to her knees, hands splayed out in front of her, fingers freezing as they gripped the hardened snow.  Pulling herself up, she wrapped her arms around her middle. A twisting fear pulled at her insides her ability to speak reduced to a whisper, “I don’t understand…”

Tentatively the man came and crouched down beside her, “I told you what we say to the god of death.”

“Not today,” Sansa whispered as the distant screeching of beast and man cut across the sky.  Her eyes flew up and followed the twisting and the fire, hurling forms of black and white crashing, and dancing in the shadow of moonlight. 

Sansa looked back to _Arya_ , their eyes meeting in defiance.  They both stood, Sansa reaching down and grabbing her hand.  In unison they looked back up into the night, and growled, “Not today.”

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Above the burning capital Jon wages war, but the one inside will surely leave new marks upon his flesh. Sansa reacts to the flight of the dragons and makes a choice born from the promises she made. Who will survive when the fires die and the sun rises bringing a new dawn?

_Ice and fire._

Heavy snowflakes fell from the clouds disintegrating against the heat in the air.  From the Gold Road to the Red Keep, King’s Landing lay burning.  As far as the eye could see the flames lapped bright and hot, lighting the darkness on fire.  

The bite of the night wind lashed against Jon’s face as the beast under him ascended chasing the imposter.  Though injured, Aegon and the black monster traversed the city, like scavengers to a carcass.  Against the black sky the fire spewed from the beast’s mouth, unforgiving in his onslaught.  Woven with the wind were the distant screams of the poor souls below.  His own blood caught flame, driving him straight towards his enemy.  

An animalistic screech filled the space between the foes, the white dragon, resisting the charge.  The pain twisted Jon’s gut, trying to determine a different way to victory.  It had never been easy to enter the dragon’s mind, the task equal parts confusing and terrifying.  And he still was unsure of such a gift, not in any way a master at the use.  How could he now, in the midst of this battle, find a way control the black dragon?

A blast of snow wrapped around Jon momentarily skewing his view.  He jerked, letting himself trust the new but familiar feeling of the dragon.  Refocused on his mission, he laid his glove over the beast.  If there was any magic left in his blood he prayed for it now, to whatever gods that would hear him.

The dragon reared its head, an orange flame cutting across the heart of the night. When he opened his eyes the black beast was inches away, darting for safety from Jon’s attack.   

The white claws gripped the sleek black scales, but it was a short triumph.  In almost the exact moment of impact, the black dragon whipped its head around, knocking Jon and the white dragon away. 

The shout carried over the cold wind as the dragons shot back toward each other, Jon fighting for some way to maintain control of the beast under him, and to garner command of the beast that flew in opposition.   

“You can’t save them,” another stream of fire hurled at the streets below.  “And it’s too late for you to save yourself.”   

The effulgence lit the darkness as more fire spewed from the mouths of the dancing creatures.  Rotating around the center of the flame, snapping jaws and flapping wings dipped lower toward the city.  Aegon turned sharply, the claws of the black animal ripping through a row of houses.  To miss a pinnacle the white creature jerked back and Jon felt himself being heaved hard, gripping tighter.  Amidst his physical struggle his mind methodized the clues of the past, determined to end this quickly.  

A reflection of his dream shimmered on the edges of his mind, remembering himself in the throne room of the Red Keep.  The man he had first believed to be Ned Stark he now recognized as himself.  Ash filtered up into the air and smoke clogged his vision, just like the ash that had fallen from the empty ceiling.  He pulled in a deep breath, the beast’s head coming up in understanding. 

For a hint of a moment Jon’s frenzied thoughts drifted to Sansa, and the children of a stochastic future. 

 _“I don’t care if you have two names or ten,”_ she had said.  “ _To me you are just Jon_.”

With a dragon under him and fire around him, Jon recognized he would soon have to make a choice.  In his dreams the dragons had been real, but now that he’d touched them and felt them they had come _alive_.  It wouldn’t be without another sense of loss that he must do what had to be done.  He knew he didn’t have to choose his name, just like he had reassured Theon all those years ago, but he would choose the realm over his children.    

 _“You are blood of the dragon, but you have the heart of the wolf_ ,” Sansa whispered from his memory.  _“And I know who you are Jon.”_  

He leveled his shoulders and narrowed his eyes, the white beast darting forward again at his command. 

_Fire and Ice._

#

The tangle of men continued to clash ahead of them, as Gendry and their men cut across the field; swinging their swords against the faceless enemy. As predicated, the first wave of opposition caved easily, and the horses and banners swept over the field, the forces pushing forward into the night.

The sister’s whispered vow still reflecting off the surface of the trees, Sansa retained hold of Arya’s hand.

Overcome, she turned to her little sister, “If we weren’t in this situation again, and if I hadn’t just sworn a vow with you to the god of death, I’d kill you.”

The skilled eyes never left the sky, but the familiar half smirk fell on the mask.  It made Sansa feel foolish now amazed that she had never recognized it before.

“Does Jon know?”

The eyes of Ser Selle looked back to her, but it was Arya’s recognizable eyebrow raise, “I told him earlier, when you asked me to bring him to you.  He came to tell you truth, but…”  The shoulders shifted back towards the fray.

Sansa swallowed, her chin rising as she stopped her tears.  A familiar heaviness settled into her bones, making the darkness deeper.  Accompanied by the distant rhythm of the fight, the tension in her body lengthened, sobering her momentary joy. Ahead of the camp, a few dead lay scattered, a reminder of the cost.  She arched from her cocoon of protection trying to see the dragons hurtling across the sky. 

The stars were blurry underneath the haze of ash and floating flames.  When the screeching of the dragons ceased, the white beast that carried Jon flew out of her line of sight chasing the black one.   

Sansa flinched when he disappeared from her view.  Ser Selle reached out, grabbing her arm, “Don’t.”

For a moment, Sansa just stared at the hard clasp of the hand, the magic almost bewitching her brain.  She gritted her teeth, quick tears coming to her eyes, “Arya.”

The knight heard the command and backed off a bit, releasing her and taking the reins of the horse, “I promised him we would go.”

She straightened her fur and narrowed her eyes at her sister, “I’ll not-”  

Just then a great rush sounded ahead of them.  It mixed with a clamor of shouts and the heavy stampede of horses, echoing off the surrounding trees.

The mounted unit had no more than thirty men, and Sansa noted they were not dressed as men from Westeros, with no visual banner or coordinated attire. And while some of them carried the traditional longsword, others wielded strange weapons from across the Narrow Sea.

Instinctively, Ser Selle blocked Sansa’s body with his own as the swarm fell upon the outskirts of the camp. He whispered a curse under his breath, “Sellswords.”

Being on foot, the mass of soldiers that stood between Sansa and the foreigners were at a slight disadvantage.  Nearly in front of her eyes, the men fell into battle.  The snow was pushed up and fluttered down, the animals rearing and skidding in the depth of winter. 

Crashing of steel twisted with the startled cry of the men ahead of them.  Sansa looked down as Ser Selle held something out to her, “Don’t you dare do anything until the very last moment.”     

Summoning the words they had howled at the moon, she took the dagger and tucked it away in the folds of her skirts, readjusting the wool.  For a moment she paused, a faraway night in a tent tucked away alongside Jon replaying in her mind.  She nodded, “I’ll not be taken alive again.”

Ser Selle didn’t blink, any evidence of Arya now gone, masked in the duty of a knight.  “Cover your hair and get on this horse,” he moved the horses as Sansa hooded herself.   

Sansa mounted easily tucking her chin into her chest as Selle got on his horse.  Keeping their heads down the trotted the horses slowly as not to garner too much attention.  Sansa kept with her sister, and followed her as she led them away, behind the lines of the soldiers.

The men swooped down the slope of the land, the swarm of combat like a chaotic mess.  On the backs of their horses, it was easy to see that the foreigners were highly skilled in battle.

Watching in anguish Sansa sank further down, trying to shield herself as best she could.  The smoke still hung in the black night as her eyes shifted upwards, scanning the fog. 

A wind swept over her, blowing her hood off her hair.  Arya slowed, momentarily blocked by the movement of men.  A shrill squawk echoed from somewhere across the sky, her mind trying to stop the spread of awareness that began as sharp prickles at the base of her neck.  

Jon had lied to her; about Daenerys and his dragons.  He had been smarter than Robb and father, and everything she had warned him about, he had actually listened.  All those times she’d brought up Daenerys to ease his suffering had only served to remind him of what he had done.  Secrets were dangerous when kept from those you _loved_ , and she bit into her chapped lip, wondering if she had lied to him too. 

Staring at the empty sky, she wasn’t sure she could endure this life without him, though she had been so confident before.  If not for her, her father’s house would surely meet its end.  Looking over at Ser Selle, she thought about Arya hidden somewhere underneath the magic of her faces… Would she?  If it was their house’s only chance?

Still, if she couldn’t expect it from herself she would never ask it of her sister.  And if they couldn’t?  Someone else would lay claim to Winterfell; the precious pile of gray granite would fly different banners than the gray direwolf of House Stark.  And father’s name would be gone…      

For a moment her eyes closed, remembering his body entwined with hers, she defenseless against his hands.  She had kept her eyes open, the whole time just like he’d asked.  When their fervor had become flushed and his own eyes drifted away, she had touched his face, bringing him back.  As their breath mingled, rising into a tune of pulsating meter he had whispered one word.  Desperation clinched in her gut, a longing that far eclipsed anything tangibly attained. 

_“Sansa…”_

How could she deny that it had changed her?  Forever altering her life and blending their souls.

No one would ever touch her again, not now, not like him.  The winds had made travelers of the storm, crashing into the sea.  He was a part of her, the half that brought her into balance; the piece that had poured life back into her dried up bones.  It was fated, a cosmic dance of nature’s whispers.  After all, is not the sea made more powerful by the storm?  And does the storm not soften at the sea? They’d opened wide and swallowed each other whole. 

If he died, _they_ would be the tragedy; a mention in a book stored away in a dusty library admits the stones of a crumbling castle.  Not Ice and fire, just a line of black scripts, dead and not like the songs.

She whispered his name under her breath like the prayers she used to say as a little girl, “Jon. Please.” 

From across the field, the potent rush brought her out of her reverie.  A flash of orange burned through the night as suddenly the dragons appeared again, pursuing each other with renewed energy.       

The assurance of the horses suddenly converted to confusion.  The animals became erratic, their movements jerked, noises filling the winter and echoing off the snow covered earth.  The shocked riders looked around, the battle taking a fractured pause.  The wind howled as the crash of the white and the black beasts once again appeared over the city, the silhouette of the moon making the shadows dance across the men. 

The screams of the creatures were gritty and violent, almost like the din of the men below.  This time her eyes didn’t dare close, but the squeals curled her blood, flashing the nightmares of the past before her eyes.  Sansa whipped her head up to their twirling forms, then back down to the earth, torn between the battle in the air and the one before her.  

She gripped the reins on her horse, the leather of her gloves protesting in the chill of winter.  Despite the brief intermission, the enemy and the Westerosi collided again, the soldiers on foot not as distracted by the beasts dancing in the sky. 

Sansa pulled in a brief breath of relief, watching how the men fought back against the foreigners.  Just as her shoulders fell, a sick feeling curled in her belly, watching the violence of the fight that hovered in the darkness. 

Aegon swirled around Jon, the black dragon’s teeth opening to spew more fire. Jon was quick, maneuvering away and twisting from the outstretched claw.  The white dragon spun around making its way straight toward his brother.

The movement was sharp, the pattern of moonlight disrupted in their haste.

Beneath the cap of a faint radiance, Sansa opened her mouth, her declaration whispered just like her prayer, “And he my dragon strong in flight…”  

Listening to the maiden’s song, the night held its breath.    

#

The impact of the white and the black beasts once again sent a rippling cry that carried out over the city.  And yet after each attempted attack, the black dragon continued to fly, crossing the city in a pattern, spewing flames over what was left of this once great place. 

The population must have been reduced by more than half of its people after the Great War, but the screams continued as he could barely make out the flecks that were surely people fleeing, making their way towards the gates of the city. 

Aegon from atop the black animal caught a glimpse of their escape.  Swooping down low, he flew into the field and the black dragon obeyed, spraying the field with fire.

Jon came up from behind him, the taste of ash and flame dry in his mouth, making his eyes water from the burn. Trying to deduce his enemy’s plan, he struggled at the reason for this destruction.  Had he flown across the Narrow Sea to just to bath Westeros in fire? 

The white creature swung closer, grasping and clawing for the sleek wings of his smaller brother.  A shriek sounded, followed by the ripping of scales and skin when finally a claw grasped hold of the target. 

The black dragon jerked, jarring Aegon from his seat.  He screamed, letting his curse ring out across the sky, “You are not the dragon that was meant to lead them.” 

Maintaining their hold, the claws dug in further fracturing the scales and tearing into flesh of the black beast. A splatter of crimson rain cascaded over the people, anointing the houses below.

Jon fought for control, the shrill of the beast he felt burn through his blood, equal parts heavy and victorious.  He jerked around, spinning in the air and nearly tumbling off.  He looked back, towards the wound on the dragon Aegon flew.  Its wing still flapped strong, but the cut was visible. 

Letting out a quick breath, the white shadow spirited across the sky again at Jon’s command.  When he flew close enough to Aegon, its earlier hesitation was completely withdrawn.  The full force of the mighty animals flung themselves into each other.  Shaken, Jon’s feet flew up.  He rolled from his seat, gloves grasping, trying to catch himself on the white scales.  A cold wind came up, as the thrash of another flutter of a wing knocked him further away.  A harsh grunt escaped his lips as he began to roll, his body flung into the open void.

The red eyes shifted when he felt his rider fall.  As he turned to fly below Jon, he exposed his neck to the large claws of his brother.  Without a moment in between opportunity and action the claws ripped through the white scales, sending a new bloody shower on the miles of city below.

The white dragon fought back, despite its injury grabbing hold of the black dragon and tearing more into the already wounded beast.  The dragons begin to spin and swirl, falling into the night as their violence and fire spewed in unison.

Tumbling together, Jon reached out to grasp hold of the animal again. As the houses and the ground grew closer Jon could feel the shudder of the animal, his cry vibrating the night sky with sorrow. 

#

Watching the dragons crash together, Sansa felt her soul separate from her body.  She hunched up on her horse as if sitting higher up would make it easier for her to get to him. 

The animal shifted under her, the trees and snow shaking as if the magic was being stripped from the earth.  Another awful screech sounded from the sky, once again halting the fight on the ground. 

Though her stomach was empty, she knew she was going to be sick.  The shadows of black and white were tangled together, fire mixing with the blood.  Even from the distance it was clear that the dragons would not stop until one had claimed the ultimate victory. And somewhere up there, beneath the sky and above the earth, Jon was hanging in the balance.

In some distant part of her she could feel Arya speak, but it was as if she were underground, her mind as hazy as the night.  The shouts and voices died around her, the only thing she could see were the dragons, whirling behind the moonlight. 

Her head snapped down as she looked across the field, soldiers and animals dispersed wildly among the snow.  Abandoned weapons scattered, Sansa made a quick inventory and determination about the slope of the land. 

The fire shot out again, calling her to its flame.  On basic instinct, she kicked her heels into her mount and darted across the snow.

The wind flew her braid off her shoulders, like her own kind of flame, lighting a trail behind her.  Shouts of surprise rippled after her as she picked up speed, heading towards the clash of men on the ground.

“Sansa!”

Ignoring the pounding of Arya’s horse behind her Sansa kept her eyes forward.  On the earth and to the sky, they darted back and forth just enough to keep her balanced in her saddle.  The ground was uneven and she was jolted, gripping the reins as she pushed harder breaking over a small dip in the land, leaving the trees well behind her. 

To her right, Ser Selle appeared, red face obscured by the speed that she kept.  His arms flailed, shouting something about keeping promises.  Sansa gritted her teeth and kept forward, the air around her moving from tepid to hot as she got closer to the burning city. 

She had made promises too, promises to her father and to the North.  Promises to _Jon._  

Two more guards appeared to her left, each dressed in Northern armor.  As the air went from hazy to gray, she coughed inhaling the smells of destruction.  The horse sensed her unsteadiness and slowed, the ground ahead of them steaming with the mixture of snow and flame. 

The screams of the dragons grew louder, rearing up Sansa’s horse.  She steadied the animal, its front legs coming down throwing her forward.  A pain shot through her neck, the biting wind blowing ash in her face. With a deep breath she looked up, sucking in the dirty air.  At this distance, she was sure it was worse, now being able to see clearly.

Arya pulled up her horse, jostling next to her, she shouted to the guards, “Position yourself around your lady!  Draw your swords!”

The details of the beasts were lost in the night, the black dragon only visible from the fire it spewed and the light of the moon.  Sansa stared on willing Jon to victory, their song clogging in her throat.

The wings fluttered and the claws scraped against each other, crashing and spinning to the music of authority and birthright.

And then…

The white beast spun hard, and Jon fell; slipping away into the empty breach between the elements.  

Sansa swung off her horse throwing herself forward into a run.  Aegon had splattered the snow with flame, the ground unusually warm and wet.  The mixture of liquid and heat made the air tepid as the horror of what she was witnessing brought her to her knees.

Each crunch of snow was magnified.  The howling of the wind sounded like the dirges of her people, each gust lamenting the words that Sansa could never reconcile. 

The guards moved around her, a swarm of protection but she made no move to flee.  The clash of soldiers and Sellswords continued, despite the peril above their heads.  Her hands came up and pressed against her chest. 

The white dragon moved to catch him, Jon falling hard on top of his back.  With a jerk the black beast took advantage of his rescue, and promptly dug in his claws, ripping out the white dragon’s throat.

Surely, somewhere, someone was singing, but it wasn’t a song Sansa would ever hear.  The blood fell like water from the sky, drowning her in the endless sea of the death of those she loved. 

_Lady. Father. Robb. Mother. Rickon. Brienne. Bran._

“Jon,” the whisper was choked out, ragged and rough.

The white beast gave a last strike, a final flourish and gripped the scales of the black dragon.  A howling wind blasted Sansa in the face, as the scream that was in her throat froze there, refusing to melt into the air.  Her chest cavity collapsed inward, the cold feeling tingling under her skin stopped as the dragons fell further, sinking away out of her sight.

What must have been only a few more seconds was the time it took for Ser Ilyn to unsheathe Ice, and draw the blade over her father’s head.  Frozen agony, unparalleled terror, mixing into the winter around her, Sansa waited again for the head to fall.

When it happened she could honestly say she felt nothing.  Nothing at all.

Nothing but the low tremble of the earth that reverberated across the city as the ground welcomed the dead.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here I sit among the pyre  
> With nothing but echoes of desire  
> All not lost but nothing gained  
> A stranger path the gods ordained
> 
> Again the battle lines have ceased  
> The enemy is gone deceased  
> And I the wolf that bares your mark  
> Will carry on the House of Stark

_It was his legs that he felt first, then the cold.  He tried to move and he couldn’t get right.  The pain in his head made it hard to open his eyes, but when he managed it, his limbs pooled with molten fury, “Dany!”_

_The queen stood a small ways off, holding three small objects in her arms.  A face stood beside her, a man he had never seen before, hooded and cloaked in shadow._

_“Don’t do this,” Jon tugged at his bindings._

_She came forward close to his face and laid a gentle kiss on the lips, “It could have been so different but…”  She shook her head, “You were the cause of the destruction of my children.”  Her white teeth grimaced as she looked next to him, “Drogon will soon join you in death.”_

_Jon swallowed, realizing for the first time he was tied to a funeral pyre.  He tugged at his wrist and jerked toward her, “You fought for the living, which was your choice.  The dragons were merely casualties.”_

_“And now,” she laid the oblong shapes at his feet.  “If there is some fairness left in this world you will be able to give me more children.”_

_Missandei looked at him with large tears protruding from her eyes, “Stay low my lord and it will be quicker that way.”_

_A growl came from his lips as he pulled and tugged against the restraints.  He pushed side to side, and maneuvered himself nowhere._

_With a torch in her hand, she gave Jon one last longing look and then moved away from him.  She took a step back and touched Drogon’s waning body; laying a kiss to his head she whispered secrets to him, in a foreign tongue.  Then in a hushed voice, laced with tears she spoke one final word, “Dracarys.”_

#

Inside the flame there was no pain just heat. It was red, but not from the dragon’s fire.  All he saw was auburn, a copper that smelled like hearth and tasted like home.  It was the sun setting around him as he was wrapped in the blush, mixing with soft orange making a majestic pink.  Every inch of his body went numb and all he was melted into one purpose.  First, he remembered her arms; weathered and cold wrapped around his neck.  Next the grasp of her hand, begging him to take her home.  The feeling of her skin, soft under his lips a contrast of her pleading eyes and iron hold begging him to be smarter.  _I loved them.  I miss them.  You’re abandoning your home. You’re abandoning your people._

She was everywhere all at once, the only thing that mattered now in a world where everything was burning.  Under his skin, the fire was beautiful, like the words of their song. And the melody was radiant just like her. His wife.

_“Come back to me…”_

She was everything and she always had been. His spot in the world was tied to her, and he wouldn’t leave her alone. He had promised.

“Sansa…”

From inside the flames, he opened his eyes.

#

_Jon!_

The world is spinning, but it does not turn.

The sky was on fire, a smoky haze burned through the blackness, littering the expanse with the colors of a summer sky.  Sansa blinked; the heat of the orange atmosphere whipped with the wind of winter, a strange dance of debris and snow giving the ground the appearance of breath.

The world thundered, but it was silent.

_Jon._

Shapes and armed figures crashed and broke in rippling waves all around her.  The sea of men cascaded over each other; medal sinking and drowning.  The cacophony mixed, coagulating with the aroma of battle.

The two Northern guards to her left rallied their swords against the foreign enemy.  Up and down, side to side; her deaf ears left unaffected by the clash of the blades.  Arms dangling useless at her sides she stared at the masquerade, a long ago tale told by her septa stirring on the edges of her blurry mind.

Swaying back on her heels her eyes closed.

_Jon…_

Inside her mind, she remembered swimming in summer, diving down deep with hot red sun overhead. That same rush was in her ears now, her vision bright with rings of orange around the peripheral.  A flash of movement behind her lids brings her eyes open.  Gray fur shifted to her right, her eyes falling on Ser Selle; the faithful knight that was actually a wolf.  Her sister.  A Stark.

_Arya._

_Arya still stands beside her._

The sharp whip of needle clashes, the rush of sound the first truth Sansa knows since the dragons fell from the sky.

The awareness emboldens her, reminding her of her own steel, woven and grafted into her bones.  From some hidden away memory she could feel him, his forehead pressed to hers, her feverish body weakened by sickness, but held secure in his strong hands.

Jon’s whisper spoke life back into her, his breath tickling over her face like a song, _“You are a wolf, the blood of Winterfell and you will survive this storm.”_

At her feet, cradled in the snow lay a foreigner, a mop of brown curls covered his head messed now with a soggy gray ash. His hands were clinched, desperate across his gut, red seeping though his fingers.  Sansa took a tentative step forward.  She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat as the degradation of men threatened the fortitude that she claimed.  All at once she thought of Robb…  A powerful surge of hate rose inside of her, and she cursed everything about war and man’s insatiable lust for power.

For a moment her eyes locked with the pale features; underneath all those layers lay a person, and for a split second she wondered; when his eyes closed for a final sleep what empty dreams would he be leaving behind? A feeling of pity rose so strong, she felt like she might fall at his feet and weep into his wounds; begging the gods for mercy.  And yet…

Those were delusions of childhood, when flowers and knights had been only sweet and good.   A past before she had watched her family die; when she was a stupid little girl that knew nothing of the dirtiness of the world.

_“Life is not a song sweetling.  Someday you may learn that to your sorrow.”_

Oh, she had learned.  Many times over.

_Jon…_

Looking up to the sky, her chest rose and fell in defiance of the poison of Littlefinger’s words.  Life’s song had soured, but with Jon its rhythm had progressed and flowed into something succulent and sweet.  The notes rising and falling like the tide of the Sunset Sea, whispering into the symphony of a life she had grown to love.

Beside her, one of the Northman struggled with an attacker, their bodies angled, each trying to break free to land a death blow.  Why should she wallow and cower infected with the past?  The leather of her glove did not shake as she put her hand into the folds of her skirt.  Retrieving the dagger Arya had given her, she stepped forward.  Letting out a growl, Sansa plunged the dagger into the neck of the enemy.

The feeling of the knife sinking into flesh sickened her, reminding her of Ramsey.  The growl, low and guttural morphed into a gasp for air.  Choking from her lips, the rush of euphoria was immediately sucked away as her chest filled with pity.  Grasping where the knife protruded, the soldier’s eyes went wild and wide as the blood spewed from the wound.

The Northman turned to Sansa, his own eyes incredulous and shouted, “Thank you my lady.”  Free now, he jerked back to the man and finished the job, a quick slash with his blade and a hard kick to his chest.  The man fell, knees to face, and face to death.

Too terrified and disgusted to watch, Sansa stumbled back, her dress catching on the snow and her boots unsteady.   Huddling next to her horse, her eyes flickered, drawn back to the colors of the sky.  All she could see were the flames, lapping in pace with the wind, blending into a kind of song of their own.  They devoured more and more of the city as she stood numb, face chapped from the bite of frost.  Shifting her shoulders, she let out a heavy breath the horse behind her pressing into her back.  Calling out to her the fire tendrils garnered her attention, twisting and stretching toward her, the yellow and orange fingers a sharp contrast to the night sky.

It is the color that quickens her breath, and not the fear of the flame.  The red is glowing, and for a moment she’s in the Godswood, staring up at the heart tree.  She imagines the leaves and the branches, strength spanning from its wise bark.  Her body shifts, her blood calling out for home, for Winterfell.  The colors cry back to her and she takes a tentative step forward, pulling her hood tight around hair.

The sound once again escapes her, as the world goes mute again.  She can’t hear her boots crunch, taking careful steps over the dead and blood that littered the snow.  The fire laps in rhythm with her heart, beating the words of the song as a silent mantra inside her head.  Under the colors, they are now a flagship in the sky, calling her back into their arms.

_A northern wolf._

_A hidden dragon._

_Nothing sweeter to imagine._

The shade appeals to her as she glides forward, the din of battle fading away into the tune of winter’s voice.  The snow has ceased but her fur can’t shield her completely from the bite that settles into her skin.   The bulk of her dress makes it a slow trek forward.  With each heavy step bringing her closer to the city alight in dancing flames.

Hot air is carried into the fracas, blowing in her face.  The draft takes her breath and for a moment she pauses, rocking gently in the midst of the harsh elements.  Voices sound ahead, her mind suddenly conscious that she is still on the battlefield with soldiers moving toward her.

Though not running, their pace is set and rigid, the heat and flames from the city grow stronger as the seconds pass.  Droplets fall from her eyes, and her gloved hand reaches up to pat her face before they can freeze on her chapped cheeks.  When the men come into view she naturally sticks out her chin, determined in her march even if it leads her away from safety.

Distant and vacant eyes come close and she is able to look in their faces.  Mud splattered, on a Tarly soldier and blood caked to the side of a man of Winterfell.  Her breath falls in a sharp gallop of relief as the smell suddenly becomes visceral, burning her eyes as more tears fall.

More soldiers pass, banners of houses she knew and men who nodded at her, clearly knowing her face, even though she doesn’t know theirs.  The hood is blown away from her head again as she sloshes on, feeling the heaviness as the water soaks more of her dress and seeps into her boots.

Sansa doesn’t remember who reaches out first, but as the city continues to empty, their bloody hands reach out to her.  She grasps their fingers, or gives them a nod of encouragement.  Some men stop and offer to take her back.  To that she just shakes her head, and tells them she has to wait for everyone to return-

 _Jon…_  The halting pain spreads out from the center of her chest.

More soldiers come up across the field and some of them now speak to speak to her:  Lady Sansa or My lady, they call out… The Lady of Winterfell, they point and nod.  Lady Stark, the voices so solemn it rips at her heart for what they have had to endure.  Some even shout ‘my queen’ as they pass, bringing a deeper remorse to her heart.  She doesn’t want to be queen, not of this place.  Not like this. Not without-

She grits her teeth and refuses to think his name.

Blue banners rose ahead of her, adorned with the white falcon.  Sansa looked around, searching for his face, but her cousin was nowhere in sight.  Still, others pour into the field as the intensity of the heat builds the flames rising faster than before.  A small group of soldiers run from the city, the large man with the hammer in his hand hard to overlook in the sea of unfamiliar faces.  Sansa sucked in a breath a quick turn of her lips making the weight against her chest a little lighter. Not everything has to end.

Gendry came upon her his face black, his armor splattered with the same dirt and gore.  “Parts of the city aren’t going to stand for much longer,” he wastes no time in belting out.  His shoulders rise and fall in heaviness as he leans over, hands on his thighs, “The fire has destroyed buildings and the weight is crumbling the stone for miles.  We have to move back.” He reached out and touched Sansa’s arm.

Her eyes fell, a light brush against his face and down to where she felt him.  The black ash caked there mixed with the dirt and sweat.  Suddenly a violent sadness welled up in her, ready to crumble her stone, just like the buildings of King’s Landing.

“I killed someone.”  The words popped out, like she had gone to confess her crimes in front of the High Septon.

His blue eyes spoke gently; his voice void of any shock; if there was any left to be had in this world of walking skeletons and flying monsters. “Come away Sansa.”

Desperately she looked back up to the darkness set to light, flickering orange and red.  The smoky haze was thicker now, making it difficult to see in front of her.  She bit her lip, rivaling natures warring inside of her.  As she made a move to continue forward, a large rumbling began and carried across the field to greet them.

The movement was different than before when the dragons flew overhead and moved against the earth.  And any hope of it being one of the beasts returning is crushed when more men run forward, snow flying, being kicked up from behind them.

“The city is falling!”  One soldier with a bleeding arm shouts as he limps by Gendry and Sansa.  “The heat of the fire is melting the stone!  Just like the stories of Harrenhal.”

The stag’s grip tightens around her arm, trying to pull her in the direction of the crowd.  Ser Selle appears next to her, his face marble no glimpse of her sister in the slant of the eyes, or the tweak of the lips.  His chest rises and falls in quick succession, panting with excursion. Armor slightly off kilter, he grips his shoulder, protecting a wound somewhere under his leather and layers.

The rush of heat, hit her again in the face filling the sights around her with a gray ash that tastes horrific when she breaths it in.  The night lightened again as the rumble of distant buildings crumbled and cracked melting against the snow.

Masses of people poured from the city all ages and sizes.  Each one of them covered in the same ash, some burned by the dragon’s flame or from melted objects set aflame.  The children cry for their mothers and the mothers cry for their children, a mass of suffering on display for all humanity to lament.  Sansa shook as she moved her feet forward against the wind, calling out encouragement to the crowd around her.

“Sansa!”  She heard Arya next to her in Selle’s rough voice.  “The city is falling we must move back!”

Pulling her arm away, she touched her furs clasped at her throat, and looked at her sister. “We can’t leave them.  We can’t leave _him.”_   Picking up her skirts she began to walk closer to the people.

A blast of tepid wind sweeps up the debris causing the Lady of Winterfell to choke for breath.  Her fist goes up to her mouth to cover the tumult, the confusion still rampant around her.  She shook her head, against the struggle, still unwillingly to turn back.

“I followed him,” Ser Selle points out grabbing Sansa’s fur and jerking her around.  “After Daenerys tried to burn Jon and make more children.”  She points to the face she wears, wondering if Sansa understands what she means.  “He was a sellsword from Essos, someone loyal to her still.  That’s why I chose this name.  I’ve worn the face of this enemy for years to protect you Sansa.  I will not let you die today.”

Sansa looks into the man’s eyes, desperately wishing it was Arya’s face she could see right now, “You did what you could Arya and now I must do what I can.”

The man’s shoulder’s sag a bit, his mouth set in grimace, “You have to survive.”

“I will,” she whispered back, nodding her head in full agreement.  She had not forgotten her promise to Eddard Stark.

Out of the corner of her eye a woman catches her attention.  Nearly doubled over in pain, she holds herself under her belly, the large stomach protectively cradled in her hand.  The wind wraps her dirty hair around her face, the rags pulled taut against her body.

Sansa gasped, rushing toward her, “Give me your hand.”

The woman looked up, the wet ash caked around the hardened rims of her eyes.  “Please my lady… The babe… I need water.”

Gripping her fingers Sansa felt the tears clog her throat, mixing with ruins floating in the air, “Yes of course…” She turned and ordered a soldier to make a fire and get the proper equipment.

“My lady the city burns a few miles away.  This isn’t a ‘proper’ place.  Let them go back to the toward trees.”

“These people won’t make it back to camp,” Sansa gripped the woman’s arm, steadying her as more people push past.

“Many won’t make it back, which is the way of war.”

When he didn’t budge, Sansa shouted the order again ser Selle moving in beside her placing his hands on the hilt of his sword.  Shortly after the display, a horse arrives with a large pot and the fire is quickly built up, using the debris left behind by the fleeing crowd as fuel.  Sansa led the woman back away as the men worked, and rubbed her hand the night heavy with the cries of the people.

As the snow melted Sansa ladled the water into a cup for the woman, watching her relish in the liquid.  When she had her fill, she thanked Sansa then straightened her shoulders and was helped by a soldier back toward the trees and camp.  The cup was then passed to another fleeing from the burning scene.

Sansa touched a child’s shoulder, looking back toward the walls of the city.  The flames leapt higher as more people made their way toward the small make shift campfire they had made. 

Two small children hand in hand followed by a father and mother, their faces white and black, stricken and in shock all mixing into their paleness and fatigue.

“Water?” Sansa called out to them, as more people made their way through.  Several other small fires had been set up, each spot serving warm water from the melted snow.  Someone arrived on a horse, laden with wood and began breaking limbs to stoke the flames.

She had a thought for Winterfell somewhere far north of this awful place.  She thought of the hot springs and the Great Hall.  She thought about the pigs and the chickens and Old Nan and her cooking… She thought about Jon and how his careful lips had first met hers in front of their own fire…

As more people poured past them, taking their drinks and then walking further away from the city Sansa kept her eyes moving.  She was scanning the crowds and then her eyes would be pulled back up to the sky.  What was she hoping to see?

She had told Jon once that King’s Landing was treacherous and it had taken far too much from her.

 _“Rest from your fears my lady; it will not take me as well.”_  Oh he had promised so many things.

She shook her head and served more water.  A bleeding young man no older than Rickon held his forearm in pain. Sansa reached up under her skirt and ripped her undergarments, wrapping the poor lad’s arm as best she could.  Grabbing a soldier she ordered him to take the young man to her tent and find someone to look at his arm.

The young man cried that his mother and sister had been trapped inside their house as the flames had nearly burned him alive too.  Sansa let her tears fall then, and leaned forward and kissed the boy’s cheek, “You’re safe now.  Chin up and follow this soldier, he will get you some proper medicine for your arm.”

More and more people came, covered in soot and bleeding.  Some were burned and others were cut from falling debris.  Some were still running, the fear of tottering homes and stone making them forever paranoid even now under the open black sky.

An auburn haired mother with a wee babe sitting atop her hip made the debilitating pain catch in Sansa’s chest.  A timeline of her dreams and hopes, paraded before her, but she is an expert in suppressing her pain. Still, her heart cries as she smiles and encourages the people to walk, run and make their way to the safety of the trees.

_Jon._

Her chest is a cave.  Noises screaming inside of her and ricocheting in so many different emotions she can’t decipher any of the voices.  All she knows is his name, and the sweet memory of the song he has left behind that now echoes filling her with a forever nothingness that aches.

_Jon._

She looked back up to the sky seeing the flames spitting higher.  Someone was shouting and the people started running.  The fire that she worked near was kicked, the snow floating up and landing on and sputtering out the flame.

_This our song of ice and fire._

“You’re a dragon,” she whispers as the smoke rises at her feet. “You’re a dragon,” her head rose as she spit at the flames that were now high above the walls of the city.

Balled at the tufts of her skirts, her fists clench, her chin raised high.  Her blue eyes sparkle, caught in the flames as what was left of her braid disintegrates, whipping free like a banner in the wind.

“You’re a dragon,” she curses again, her mouth filled with so much hate but twisted in a desperate hope.

Her heart whispers, silent, _“You have to be.”_

Sansa stood staring helplessly at the burning city.  Flames lashed and spewed, the heat sweeping up the hills toward them.  Feeling the heat of the fire, she didn’t have to imagine the screams of the people still trapped inside.

“The last Targaryen…”  She spoke the words as her steps grew more rapid.  “You did not burn.”

Sansa picked up her skirts and ran toward the flames shouting again and again, “You are a dragon!  You’re dragon!”

In the distance she could hear the soldiers scream, feet pounding behind her, but she kept moving toward the heat.

People were running toward her, more humanity escaping the city.  Her eyes filled with tears as the ash and the smell hit her face, compounding into a soggy gray paste on her skin.  She felt her arm being jerked behind her.

Sansa turned and looked into her sister’s red eyes, “Go back Arya.”

“No!” she screamed back into Sansa’s face.  “Not without you.”

Guards had caught up to them, filling in the space around the sisters.  The stream of people still ran up towards her, escaping the flames.  Sansa stood staring at the city, unwillingly to cave into any type of acceptance.

Aegon had brought foreigners, sellswords that had crumbled easily and dragons that had done nothing but burn stone to the ground.  The victory had been quicker than most epic battles and there had been no clear reasoning to any of the actions.  No ballads would be written about this mess that covered her body and still drifted from the sky into her mouth.

She shook her head, these wars were nothing but blood and death and fire. These wars were nothing like the songs.

The time drug so slowly, Sansa coughing and crying as the flames continued.  Arya stood by her side, hovering behind her, refusing to leave her.

The tears mixed with the dirt on her face, now nearly frozen, hardening from the cold.  The smoking ruins of the once proud city still smoldered in front of her, wounded people still milled forward trying to escape the city, but their numbers were growing less and less.  The space in front of her growing emptier, just like the rage that had shaken her body, Sansa sank to the snow.

Slowly, the anger melted as she continued to watch the flames lap and crackle.  The sky was changing and somehow as the hours passed, she realized night must be fading into early morning.  As the sky remained empty and the flames began to wane there was a stirring in Sansa’s gut.  A gentle nudge from something unearthly, bringing a sweet memory to her mind…

_“Do you sing anymore Sansa?”_

_The question struck her, thoughts of Arya still lingering on the edges of her mind and she clasped her hands in her lap._

_“I remember you used to sing.”_

_“Not for long time.”_

_His eyes were heavy; he waited a beat, “Would you sing again?”_

_“Now?”_

She looked back to her sister, remembering the night Jon had come to their solar and asked her to sing.   Her raspy voice tasted the air as her lips parted and she began to mouth the words.

A northern wolf and hidden dragon

Nothing sweeter to imagine

A bursting tale of deep desire,

This their song of ice and fire…

On the hard ground Sansa shifted brushing her hair away from her eyes.  Her dress crunched, its dampness frozen as well.  She was tired, the hours moving forward and soon she looked around realizing it was only her.  No more people came from the smoking ruins of King’s Landing.  She sat alone in the snow, surrounded by people who knew better than to tell her to go. Remembering Littlefinger’s promise and Cersei’s harsh words, she prayed her song would have a different end.

New words formed in her heart, and she whispered them into the air praying that somewhere behind the walls some magic could carry them to Jon.

 

And here I sit among the pyre

With nothing but echoes of desire

All not lost but nothing gained

A stranger path the gods ordained

 

Again the battle lines have ceased

The enemy is gone deceased

And I the wolf that bares your mark

Will carry on the House of Stark

 

Our child surely grows in me

A perfect blend of storm and sea

And by his crib I’ll say your name

And sing to him how winter came

 

“And I’ll sing to him,” her hands cradled her flat stomach the last thread of hope dangling precariously as the hours marched on.

Over and over she sang the words to the tune of their song.  Filling the night with hope for the future, she watched more debris and smoke rise from behind the walls.  Against the earth, the snow was cold, but the song brought her warmth.  Somehow melting away the pain of the reality she would face at first light.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa standing and screaming in defiance at the walls of a burning King's Landing has been branded in my mind since October 2017. Her hated lament of "You're a dragon!" is both a pray and a curse. For him to survive he needs to be Targaryen, but she hates what that means. Thank you for staying with me through this experience, it truly has been life changing and I'm not even kidding. In the next chapter we will see who will win the day:   
> "Some say the world will end in fire,  
> Some say in ice.  
> From what I’ve tasted of desire  
> I hold with those who favor fire.  
> But if it had to perish twice,  
> I think I know enough of hate  
> To say that for destruction ice  
> Is also great  
> And would suffice."- Robert Frost


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dawn rises over King's Landing bringing hope. The horizon carries the promise of a future with a glimpse of the sweet spring to come.

Across the distance a low rumble of falling stone echoed through the ground sending a trimmer through the top layer of the earth.  The darkness still covered the sky, and the snow lay in heavy blankets across the ground.  Remnants of the escape littered the expanse of the field as the once proud walls of King’s Landing somehow still remained intact despite the devastating dance of the white and black beasts.

The duration of the night brought many people to the vigil the Lady of Winterfell tenaciously sustained. Each came and tried to offer a word, to pull the northern daughter away from the dying flames.

The Lannister came first, closely followed by the Lord of the Vale.  Some commotion was started about Lord Tarly and where he had disappeared to after the battle.  Soon it was discovered he had followed others back to camp and he was tending the people, binding wounds and administrating healing.

Horses and guards marched against the snow, dragging away debris or whatever might be useful back at camp.  Whispered voices floated around the small group about Aegon and the contradiction of such a display. 

There were shouts and arguments and blame and distrust thrown around whirling against the winter making the spilled blood seemingly meaningless.  How quickly the battle had faded and everyone gathered up arms once again sparking the great game.

And Arya remained constant, Gendry by her side.  Still wearing the face of the knight she stood still and silent, shaking her head when people would try to pull her into such discussions, or argue about how long this memorial should continue. For hours she only repeated, “I wait for Lady Stark.”

Sturdy despite the weight of the night’s events, Sansa knew nothing but her song.   Remembering her promise to Jon, she clung to her words of endurance, even while the horrible truth slowly chipped and hollowed out a hole of understanding in her chest. 

“ _Life is not a song…”_

When the smell of morning did come, it came too fast for the Lady of Winterfell.  The pain of an empty sky stood black, mocking her watch.  The dew mixed with the smoke and ashes filled the air with a hazy gray dusting.  The colors of the flames were almost extinguished, the reds and oranges now just a muted smell of ruin. The tune of Sansa’s lament faded, until the last words broke, a whispering wave floating into the city on the edges of a bitter wind; a sea finally settling admits the dying storm.

“Sansa.”

Her legs were tucked under her, a heavy fur atop her shoulders, and a flicker of warm light teased against her eyelids.  Fluttering open, her stare was drawn to a small fire alight in yellow flame.  It burned next to her, surely saving her extremities from the cold.  Selle’s beloved voice warmed her too; the familiar features a promise of hope, even among the dead.

“It’s done then.” The voice that touched the wind sounded strange after hours of singing.  Muted blue eyes met the knight’s, as she whispered, “The invaders… Aegon?  They’re defeated?”

His eyes peered at the city, as he crouched low next to Sansa, “The Vale came from the east side of the city, and Gendry from our position and so it seems we have won the day.”  

Worry corroded his confident words, and Sansa felt her own chest rattle, “But?”

“This feels like an elaborate illusion, a shadow of something that is moving behind today.”

Sansa’s hands clenched into fists, “Another part of the game...” 

The weathered brow came down hard over his eyes, “If that’s true the answer lies with whoever is with Aegon?  And you know who it is.”

Sansa nodded, her chest went rigid, eyeing the group off to the side. “I do.” Her voice was hushed, “But now is not the time for that.”

Swallowing the truth, Sansa licked her chapped lips, “And the dragons-” She couldn’t bring herself to ask about anything else.  Releasing her breath, she thought only of the beasts, “They killed each other-”

The knight nodded, “Just like the songs.” 

“No,” Sansa reflected heartsick.  She shifted, an acute sense of nausea sweeping over her, “Not like the songs.”

 Waiting a moment, Selle shifted on his haunches, his weary eyes softened.  Leather protesting, he swept his muddied and wet cape around his body.  “You’ve been out here for hours and you need to get warm.”  His eyes drifted back to King’s Landing, “Once the fires have burned themselves out we will send men in to…”  He cleared his throat, “…To see the damage and find any survivors.”

A gust of wind swept ashes into her mouth. Choking, her cough came out pitiful and foul, a burning sensation aching in her throat.  Someone pressed a cup of warm liquid into her gloved hand. Relishing in the drink she had a thought for all the ones she’d encouraged back to the trees.  Whatever was left of this world may need her strength, for the North surely needed her steel and…

 _“You are the blood of Winterfell.”_   The rush of fervent words filled the feeble wasteland of her memory.  

She gritted her teeth forcing herself to stand.  Her legs were wobbly, but Selle steadied her.  “What about the people?”  She asked finding it difficult to swallow as she took another sip from the cup. 

He shook his head, “There are not enough supplies or food… We are working on it.”

Nodding she consented easily enough not having the energy to focus on such a task just yet.  Gripping her sister’s hand, her blue eyes filled with grateful tears, “Thank you for not leaving me Arya.”

He nodded, his eyes flitting around making sure no one was close enough to hear her. The sad smirk of his lips was more youthful than the lines of his face, “Would you come away now?”

“Soon,” Sansa looked wearily at the sky.  “When the sun rises.”

The knight released a heavy sigh, but walked away, allowing her the space she needed.  Turning back to the small group he went to fetch a horse.  

A shaky breath escaped her slightly parted lips.  Looking back up to the coming dawn, the desolate hollow opened wider, carving deeper inside of her.  “Jon,” Sansa whispered his name like a prayer, pleading to whatever magic or god could hear.  Just as she had been mourning for hours, she continued, her chin stuck in a fierce defiance. “I’ll sing.  I will.  I promise.” Her voice hoarse and harsh, the cold tearing at her throat without relent.

With a dark ache in her gut, Sansa watched the sun’s breath spill over the field, the pink hues of daylight swelling over the horizon.  The smell of both living and burnt things mixed into the crisp air a pungent odor that tainted the scene, weaving a dirge of death.  The first light of day contradicted the ash sparkling with the snow.  Tugging at her heart, a swooping sensation of fate overtook her as he lingered on the edges of her mind, his essence mixing with sunrise. 

_Somewhere between darkness and dawn, after he’d put away the raven’s scroll and come back to bed, they found themselves wrapped together again. Shaking, he hovered over her their mingled breaths stirring together._

_Reaching up, light fingertips touched his cheek, her body dangling on the edges of their union.  Tracing the sliver scar that had faded over the years, Sansa’s eyes swept down, still mesmerized by the feeling of him.  Jon made a soft noise, his nose grazing her collar bone._

_Nuzzling into her neck, he kissed her tasting her flesh.  Whispering against her mouth, she felt him breathe words into her body, “It will be morning soon.”_

_Lidded eyes smiled back into his, swelling with blue sea, pulling him under her waves. “And yet the sun already warms me.”_

The vivid memory melted away as her eyes opened with the daylight.  An orange sun was rising, the colors impossibly rich and warm across the winter sky, saturating the earth with a marvelous display.  Red lashes and deep blue flares elevated her from the dead, refocusing her on the future horizon.  The horse’s reins slipped into her hand, but she couldn’t feel anything except dawn’s hushed promise. And even in that Jon was there, warming her with the memory of the sweet, but insufficient time when she had been his.

Unhurried, she shifted her furs and tucked away her wandering hair. The brightness spread, causing her to blink away from it, as she moved her foot ready to ride back to camp.  Raising her hand to shield her stare, a shout from one of the guards brought Ser Selle back to her side.  

“A straggler,” Gendry’s familiar timbre named the threat the guards alerted to.  

Eyes moving over her saddle, a black shadow caught her eyes. A lone figure fell between her and the distant dawn, momentarily obscuring the light in her eyes.  Sansa sucked in a quick breath and lowered her hand.

The clothes on the man’s body were destroyed, possibly burned, leaving patches of bare skin exposed to the elements. The remaining leather and cloth clung to him in a few places, as he gripped a longsword in his hand.  Narrowing her eyes, her mouth fell slack trying to grasp the reality of what she saw.  The snow before him melted with each footstep he took and as his body grew larger an obscure steam rose, cascading off his skin.

Taking a step closer to the man, her arms fell languid to her sides, a strangled cry escaping her raw throat, “Jon?”

 The distance between them was impossibly too far, but his stare somehow met hers across the field.  Inside of him, he lamented the pieces of himself he could never get back, that lay broken in a city he hated, in a world he didn’t understand.

At the sight of the fire that kissed her hair tethered in a warm flame, the grief that surrounded him lifted.  A hope from the basest part of him grew, lighting his skin with a powerful pull.  Unabashedly, resolutely, recklessly, his hand gripped around Longclaw, his feet doubling the pace towards her.  

Tears stung the back of her throat, as the rush of release stirred in her belly and flowed out into her blood.  Next to her Selle, doubled over, hands to his knees, his own exclamation of relief drifted to the sky.

Dropping the reins of the horse, she took a step forward and then another, in a moment the cold was forgotten as she picked up her speed.  After hours of sitting sedentary in the snow, they protested beneath her.  Each footfall made a sharp tingling pain run up her frozen legs.  With each heavy breath and swing of her arms she awoke as their bodies grew closer and closer together.

A few yards away she stopped and stared at him, her shoulders rising up and down in heavy waves.  Hanging down, his raven hair was limp and caked in gray ash.  Mud splattered what remained of his leather and a new gash was red and set oozing near his shoulder.  His chest was bare and scarlet, his eyes glowing.  Pulling in a deep breath he stopped and looked back at her incredulous features.  He cocked his head with his chin angled down.  With slightly raised eyebrows, his lips curved into a slight twitch.

“You’re alive,” her steady voice melted at the joy on his face.

Dancing with the colors of ice and fire, the morning above was fully alive in a vibrant anthem of dawn.  Flashes of memory, slices of a previous life passed between them.  Their eyes rooted together, remembering the warmth of a murdered childhood that still ebbed and flowed with the ache of long ago death.  Distance from each other now seemed an impossible nightmare, the dark lonely road that led them home, merciless and cruel yet faultless in its end.

“I promised you,” Jon’s beloved voice simply sang, hovering across the charred remains of fields and soldiers.  “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

Burning away her words, her throat constricted and swallowed, her open lips releasing a breath of eager exhalation.  A choked laugh bubbled up from her chest and trickled over them as his smile spread wide against his mouth.

Breaking the last piece of ground that stood between them they fell forward, molding into each other.  The steady grip of his arms was around her waist as she anchored herself in the safety of his heart. 

A crisp wind floated over them, the rising dawn filled her, and the distant shouts disappeared leaving them to each other. Twisting her fingers in his hair, she clung to him, her rapid words whispered into his neck. “I was wrong about us Jon.”

With a sharp movement, he backed away pulling her face into his hands.  The pads of his thumbs dug into her ivory skin, forcing her eyes to not break from his.  A fierce voice met her ears, a shadow covered his eyes.  He licked his lips all the truths laid bare between them as his heart plummeted into his stomach, “Wrong?”

Soft blue eyes filled with conviction, “You are ice and fire all in your own. The perfect balance, that has now brought peace to Westeros.”

A puff of air escaped his chest and floated between them, “I should have told you the truth right from the very beginning. I should have told you about Daenerys and the dragons. You would have found a way to end this.  I thought I was protecting you, but you could have helped me protect the realm.”

Looking down his eyes sparked and his hands went immediately to her fur.  Cascading over her his breath came out strangled, “Are you hurt?” It was choked and he was in pain, hot breath in her face.

Her brows furrowed that he should worry about her, when he was the one with obvious wounds.  Looking down she noticed the red stains on her white fur for the first time.

“It’s not mine,” she whispered realizing the blood was all over her.  There was no way to know for sure how it happened, if it had been when she’d stabbed the sellsword or when she’d served people water as the fire rained down on them. 

“And you?” She questioned him, her fingers gliding over his bare chest, hovering near the gash she’d seen. “What happened in there?”

Following the brush of her fingers he looked down, clasping her fingers against him.  His eyes closed, the smell of fire staunch and terrible, “The dragons are gone.” 

Her head tilted to the side as she took a step closer to him, thinking about Lady, “Does it pain you?”

Rubbing the tops of her hands his body trembled, “I don’t understand it; the magic that birthed the dragons, or my ability to control them.  Aegon now lies in a pile of rubble burned alongside of them and the people, more innocents that I couldn’t save…” The breath tumbled out of him, hot and weighty.

Confusion, anger, and guilt lay in thick layers across his face. His uncovered skin was still steaming giving off the appearance of a doused fire, “What did any of it matter in the end?”

“Before she died, Aegon and Daenerys had communicated.  The men behind him had long since set their sights on Westeros, and formed some kind of agreement with her.  Tyrion and Varys were no doubt behind these schemes but it was before they had accepted how truly terrible she could be. Perhaps if they had known about you, they wouldn’t have risked the realm’s safety with such an alliance, but after her death and your dragons, it was too late.  I believe Tyrion abandoned the plan though attempts were made to pull him back in.  The best Varys could do was lead him into your hands.” 

His nostrils flared as he released a shaky puff of air, “And cause the death of many.”

She fingers curled into his hair, “Many more could have died if he were not there to temper his approach, and if you had not controlled your dragons.”  Her smile was sad, “Balance.”

A slight part of his lips and a raised brow met her declaration.  Leaning forward into her, his burning touch slid down and gripped her waist. Hues of red still splotched his cheeks, but his eyes were steady, and didn’t’ flit away any longer, “If anyone brings balance to the world it’s you Sansa.  You’re the one that keeps bringing me back.”

Shaking her head her brow creased, “How?”

His breath was hot and his eyes bounced around the decimated field.  “In my dreams I was always in that pyre.  I could see the flames, but it didn’t hurt.  It tasted like the sun and summer flowers, rolled up with orange and pinks lapping around me…”  His eyes narrowed as if they stood in the flames he described.  His hands fell against both sides of her face.  “It’s when my clothes are gone that I know,” he pulled in a rattled breath, “That I should scream but I don’t.” 

The storm in his eyes swelled, “And then I’m in the throne room of the Red Keep and I thought I was talking to father, but it’s not father.  It’s me.”  He swallowed, “I can hear the dragon, screeching, burning inside of me.  It’s like the fire was under my skin but it wasn’t painful.  It was light, and its beauty filled in the empty spaces in me.”

“Suddenly, I was somewhere else; above the earth, below the earth, falling and running along the ground.  I was home, and Winterfell was in me and flowed through my blood and then I just stop.  And I could hear…” His face flushed scarlet and he looked away.

“Tell me,” she whispered into him.

His nostrils flared as his eye swept back into her face, “I could hear a voice; your voice Sansa… Over me and over home.”

“And then… I am free, just like I was in that fire.  Somehow the bindings on my arms and legs just broke and I fell forward.  And I reached out and she was there with me in the flame…”

Her pink lips parted as she stared at him, trying to grasp the magic, “I was singing today.”

“I heard you then, and I heard you today.”

His hands went up into her hair, “The fall knocked me out, and we both fell into the flames.  The buildings were falling all around us. I didn’t have to kill him.  He was already burning.”

“He didn’t have the blood of the dragon.” Sansa stated simply.   

Pulling in a deep breath, Jon looked up to the sky.  Determined. Eager.  Alive. He looked back to his wife and cupped her face, “You allowed me to be whoever it is I am.  I was born with two names, but let me die with one.”

Her eyes closed his voice sweeter than any melody, “Jon…”

His thumbs stroked her lips, “I don’t just want our children to be Starks Sansa… Make me one, let my name be Jon Stark.”

Caught in her chest, her breath staggered, her lips chattering from the cold or the miracle of his life she wasn’t sure.  “How many times have I told you? You’ve always been a Stark to me.”

Falling into her, his body burned away the ice that clung to her.  His nose grazed over her checks, the gray of his irises sinking into the depths of her blue sea, “I’ve loved you for too long.”

Sansa let her fingers slide up his bare skin, and trace the angle of his lips.  A groan escaped his mouth as he gripped her tighter, her soft touch stirring him more than any other fire ever could.  She spread her hand out against his cheek and tilted her head to the side.

Like the birth of new spring their lips met, warm and wet. Tasting each other, dawn filled their bodies, catching them on fire with her light. Their beings hummed together, the words of a beautiful song, the melody finally free of any hidden secret or dark truth. Touching her with eager tenderness, like she was built of glass yet tempered in steel, his hands slid down and locked at her waist.  Pulling her hips against his, she sheltered herself in the safety of his arms.  Wrapped in each other, they fell deeper into this song, culminating into the beginnings of an enduring symphony. And shouldn’t love should be like this? Soft and growing like the flowers that sprout on the hillside under the gentle care of the sun?

#

With linked hands, Jon and Sansa made their way toward the group.  Gathered together, people embraced each other, the future decisions set aside for a moment to relish in life and second chances.

On the edge of the group Ser Selle stood and watched something close to peace covering his drawn features. Sansa and Jon approached him slowly, still unsure in their new dynamics.  Hands on the hilt of his sword his mouth tipped up sardonically, “That was thrilling to watch but Jon...” Looking down, he held out his cloak. “Cover up. People don’t want to see their king in such a vulnerable state.” 

Taking the cloak he put it on, noticing the veneer completely gone, “You told her?”

Arya shined through, “I did.” 

They both came forward and put their arms around their sister.  The years melted away into the constancy of family.  Sansa whispered close to the knight’s ear, “I want to see your real face Arya.” 

“Aye,” Jon agreed among the muffle of fur and arms.

Pulling away, Selle’s eyes twinkled, briefly shifting to Lord Baratheon, then back to her family. “There are things I still have to figure out but I do know one thing for sure.  I am Arya Stark of Winterfell.  I don’t know where she will end up, but at least I know that.”  

Sansa looked into the knight’s eyes and then turned slightly to see Gendry watching them intently. Her lips twitched into a gentle smile as she jerked her head calling the young lord over to them, “Life is not always like the songs.”

The sisters held each other stares and the knight swallowed thickly, looking between the two of them. “I love you both more than my own life.”

Jon looked to Sansa seeing the large tears drip down her cheeks.  He gripped the knight’s arm, “No matter where you go or what you decide to do, you will always be a Stark of Winterfell.  Our sister, our family.”

Gendry looked over the three of them and smiled, “Can I interrupt?”

Backing away Jon retained hold of his wife’s hand, allowing Lord Baratheon to speak to the knight.  Sansa looked up her smile fading as her eyes fell scanned the group of people.  She swallowed as she whispered in Jon’s ear, “Where’s Tyrion?”

#

He stood on the edge of the battlefield.  The back of his hand wiping the dried blood that caked on the side of his face from the blow he’d taken to his head.  

“The king in the North lives.”

Tyrion didn’t turn nor look to the spider that spoke beside him.  His small shoulders shifted “The king of the realm now I’m sure.  Or isn’t that what you wanted?”

He didn’t smile, his features guarded, “I want what I have always wanted.”

The Imp’s mouth turned into a small accusing smile, “I know this was not our initial intent but this is very clearly still our responsibility. Though it was years ago, does it not bother you that we set this in motion?”

The man shifted his shoulders, looking out across the field, a longing glint in his eye. “Of course it does, but it had to be done.  A hero likes nothing more than something to save.  Jon Snow needed something to save.”

“And you gave it to him.” 

The round bald man looked down on the shorter one, “By your own admission you did too.  Even before Daenerys, Illyrio had convinced Aegon to come.  Once he got the dragons and bonded with the black one I had to do something to save the realm, with our without your help.” 

Tyrion squinted his eyes, the smell of the burning city wafting in his nostrils, “What a way to do it.”

“War is terrible, but a mad man with no wise council is worse.”  He looked down at Tyrion his illusion to the past direct and left no more room for questions.

The dwarf took a deep breath, “And if Aegon had lived and not Jon?”

“Analyzing all possible responses to nonexistent outcomes is a meaningless pursuit.”

The spider continued, “And you?  Did you use my family history to protect you like I suggested?”

“No doubt Sansa saw through it but I am still alive for now.” 

The spider turned to go, “Good.”

“Varys,” Tyrion turned toward him.  “Is it true?  Was your mother a Blackfyre?”  

The man spoke over his shoulder, with a slight shake of his head he walked away.  “It doesn’t matter now.”  

#

“I used to want nothing more than to be the queen,” Sansa’s arm looped in the crook of Jon’s arm.  The Red Keep stood, though burned, the Iron Throne looking even harder and colder than she remembered.   

Turning toward her his eyes narrowed and a small smile fell on his lips. “I remember.”  Letting go of the past his voice softened some, “And now?”

“It’s not just about what I want anymore but what the realm needs.  The North may be independent but the stability of the country is still important to our survival.” She looked backed toward Tyrion, Sam, Gendry and the other ruling lords and sighed heavily, “What do you want Jon?”

Pulling her into his chest he traced her lips with the pads of his thumbs, “I want my son to grow up in Winterfell.”

Kissing him gently on his cheek she nuzzled his nose, “And what about all the people?”

He pulled away slightly, his heart awed by her selfless compassion.  “We can compromise, stay for a time to help set a plan in place for reconstruction.  We will make sure the government is viable and stable.”

Sansa smiled, “And then we’ll go home?”

“Aye,” he kissed her lightly letting his lips tremble over hers.  “Then we’ll go home.”

 

Epilogue 

The first child came alongside the first warm wind of spring.  A plump red boy with auburn curls.  Sansa put him in Jon’s arms and said, “Robb.”

“Robb,” he repeated awed.

Then a girl.

“She has silver hair,” Sansa told him.

“Rhaenys, for my sister.”

“Rhaenys,” she agreed.

Then another boy, Brandon, Jon whispered as he smelled him.

Brandon, Sansa cried, her own heart a flutter with memory. Painful and sweet.

And when the last girl came, Sansa labored for days as the child fought her way into the world. When Jon finally held his daughter he came and sat next to his wife. Looking down into her Stark features he spoke. The only name for her is…

“Arya,” they spoke in unison. Eyes of fire joined with eyes of ice and their smile could have built the world. 

And so the sun rose and fell over the North and the Starks endured.  No one ever forgot Eddard Stark or the dragons that came back to King’s Landing after the Great War.  Their stories lived on, written and copied again and again by the maesters and sung in taverns and halls all over Westeros.   

Though their life was warm, simple and sweet, it wasn’t like the songs, just as Sansa had predicted. Those songs never reflected the pain that had been theirs.  It hadn’t made them, but instead refined and shaped them.  In the face of so much pollution and pain, instead of being written, the Starks had chosen to sing making the rest of their days a melody of sweetness from the ashes.

Long after their statues were commissioned in the crypts beneath their home, the people loved and mourned them.  The northern wolf and hidden dragon, a bittersweet refrain morphing slowly into the theme of their house... 

 

Not like the songs, but something close. 

A tale of deep desire,

A song of ice and fire.

The End

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the show ends tomorrow I hope you enjoy the ending of this story. I have enjoyed reading all your comments and spending time with these characters. Thank you for taking this journey with me!!


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